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greensagephase · 4 months ago

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Nonviolent Communication - Part 17

Pairing: Spider-Man!Miguel O'Hara x Spider-Woman!Reader Summary: Miguel has been distant lately and you don't know why. Word Count: 23.9k Warnings: distant Miguel; he displays similar behaviors from the beginning of the fic, no sleeping and skipping meals; tones/mentions of death; small moment in which reader misunderstands Miguel's words and thinks he means something else (him wanting to be gone permanently); lots of fluff memories; both Miguel and you cry; lyrics for some of the songs (two) will be sprinkled in the dialogue, I tried my best to translate for one, while for the other one you can search it up. You may already know the meaning behind it since I think most of Miguel nation knows this one song already. I think that's it. If you find something else, pls let me know :) Music (Spotify playlist): "rises the moon (piano version)" - goated. "Baila Esta Cumbia" - Selena "Las Mañanitas" - Vicente Fernández (birthday song for Mexicans, at least) "someday i'll get it" - Alek Olsen "pluto projector (melody)" - emptiness "En Familia" - Carlo Siliotto (unfortunately this song isn't on Spotify, but it was one of the two main songs for this chapter. You may find it on YT here) "Luna de Xelajú" - Gaby Moreno, Oscar Isaac (yes, we're bringing it back and you better have tissues ready 🤧) "Jacob and The Stone" - Emile Mosseri Masterlist (where you can find all my other fics, but most importantly, all fanart for NC 🥹) Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoy!! 🫶🏼❤️

Part 17

The sight of sunlight streaming through the holographic blinds of your bedroom meets your eyes when you first wake up. Yawning, you stretch beneath the sheets, slowly waking up. You roll over on your side with a sigh, staring at the little pockets of sunshine on the floor.

The warmth under the covers keeps you there, anchored to the bed for a few more minutes until you finally decide to get out of bed to start the day. You slip on both gizmos; the one everyone has available to them and the new one Miguel gave you to test for him, removing the wristband you wear around the penthouse due to comfort and to avoid glitching since you’re not in your universe.

Trying not to think about something, or rather someone, you make your bed and get ready for the day. It’s only when you’re done with your bathroom routine that you decide to find out.

“Lyla?” you say.

“Hey - morning,” she says popping through your gizmo.

“Morning… Is Miguel…” you trail off.

“He’s already at HQ, yes,” she replies, fixing her glasses. “He left two hours ago.”

“Thanks.” With a frown, you make your way downstairs. You only check the kitchen out of curiosity, not because you’re particularly hungry. Knowing Miguel is already gone has decreased your appetite. Sure enough, you find a note on the counter from him, stating that he’s going to HQ. With a sigh, you slip out of the penthouse and head to your universe for your usual morning patrol, feeling down about the situation.

The problem is… Today is not the first day Miguel has gone to HQ so early. He’s been leaving the penthouse as early as 5am, unlike the past weeks and months since you’ve been living with him. Typically, the two of you leave together around the same time you’ve left the place today. You have coffee and sometimes even cook a full breakfast, but it hasn’t been like that for a few days.

You eventually arrive to HQ after your patrol, still feeling a heaviness around you. You do your tasks such as working on the weekly report, going on missions, and helping other spider members when and where it’s needed until it’s time for you to head to Miguel’s lab for your weekly organizing.

It’s still something you enjoy doing, especially even more now that Miguel is so much more open than when you first started organizing his lab two years ago. Even if you’re not conversing, the simple enjoyment of being in each other’s presence is satisfying to the two of you.

You look down at the boxes with food from the cafeteria and the drink carrier in your hands as you head there. You’re certain Miguel hasn’t had anything to eat, except maybe a coffee, if even that, so you’ve decided to get him something. Of course, being lunch time, you got him his favorite meal from the cafeteria: empanadas and other sides, along with a water and a coffee.

As expected, he thanks you with a small smile, but it’s one that doesn’t reach his eyes these days. You both eat in silence before you begin to work. As always, you make your rounds and check each surface, seeing what all there is to organize before you actually begin. You do this quietly, noticing that Miguel is too quiet. In fact, he’s been so much quieter the last few days, as if something has been weighting on his mind. Deeply. Terribly.

You’ve found him staring off into his screens several times over the last few days, his crimson eyes unblinking and focused on nothing in particular, lost in whatever has been plaguing his thoughts these days.

His smiles are distant and sad. He’s been unable to give you a true, genuine smile.

To everyone else, it may seem like a normal thing. Maybe they haven’t even noticed it, but you know better.

He’s far too quiet when cooking. His gaze is unfocused when he’s reading in the afternoons. He’s sought more solitude recently, heading upstairs to his room after dinner, and has been working out every day in the private gym in the penthouse building for several hours at a time.

You dared asked him yesterday if something was wrong, in a far more subtle way, of course.

“I’m alright, just tired,” he replied blinking back into focus, raising his hand to move screens around. He was back to working, or well, actually working since he was zoning out before you talked to him.

You continue to work silently now, taking note of the fact that even Lyla doesn’t chat with you like she normally does. She pops in and out, doing her tasks without any banter.

With a heavy feeling, you glance at Miguel. He’s on his platform, his back to you. Your eyes trace his broad shoulders, the tense stance.

Those shoulders.

They’ve carried too much for far too long.

What is plaguing his mind as of now? You can only wonder to yourself.

You carry on with your tasks, giving Miguel his time. You hope he’ll feel comfortable enough to share with you what’s been on his mind soon, or at least that his mood will improve because his recent disposition has reminded you of the early days when you first started organizing the lab. And, the truth is, that that worries and saddens you. It almost sends little alarms to your head about the possibility of maybe… Losing him.

You shake your head, trying to get rid of those thoughts. You don’t want to think about that possibility. The possibility of him taking a step back and deciding to shut everyone out again.

Including you.

But surely, that’s not it. Right?

You’ve thought about it the last few days. Did you do or said something that made him upset? Is there a chance that you did and he doesn’t want to bring it up to avoid hurting your feelings? You even wonder if maybe he’s… In need of space from you. Maybe having you around too much has become stressful, even suffocating. You debate that specifically, having no other explanation for his current behavior.

You’ve both tried to give each other space while at the penthouse, so it’s not like you spend every hour together in the evenings. During the days, you’re off doing other things either at HQ or at your universe. Yet, you still wonder if you being in his personal space, in his home, has become too much for him. Maybe you’ve pushed his boundaries, those you always try to respect, without even realizing it.

With a frown and a bad feeling in your chest, one you’ve carried with you over the last few days, you continue to work wordlessly until you’re done. You decide to leave the lab afterwards and give Miguel space, thinking maybe he truly needs a break from you.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Miguel stays a few more hours at HQ than he usually does these days. When he gets home, he reheats his own dinner, even though you offer to do it for him, a gesture he politely declines. In previous days, you talked with him for a bit. You’ve told him about your day, back in your universe when you’re off to do patrols, which you’ve continued to do. Just because you’re living in Miguel’s universe for the moment, doesn’t mean you’ve abandoned your dimension nor left your city defenseless.

You know you have Miguel’s technology to help connect with your two-way radio in case of emergencies, but even then, you like to do patrols. It was your promise to Peter, your Peter, after all. To keep your city safe, so you do.

You patrol your city, witnessing all sorts of things. One thing you’ve definitely learned from being Spider-Woman is that people do strange, funny, and sometimes even wholesome things when they believe no one is watching. If only they knew Spider-Woman is often watching from some rooftop.

It’s these stories you’ve told Miguel, in hopes of bringing some light to those sad eyes. You’ve succeeded but only during those short moments of time.

Whatever is on his mind takes the happiness out of them and his heart.

Today, instead of talking to him, you opt to remain silent as you clean the kitchen to at least give him company. Not long after, he excuses himself after washing his dishes, heading to his bedroom. Once you’re done cleaning the kitchen, you decide to lounge in your room, or Gabriel’s rather.

The penthouse is, once more, silent this evening, and for the first time, you feel an emptiness from it.

With a sigh, you stare out the window. The sight of the sun setting reminds you of Father’s Day and how you both sat on the rooftop that evening, enjoying the view before the sun dipped below the horizon, giving you a memory you’ll forever remember.

You touch your elbow, recalling how you ended up hurting yourself that evening in an attempt to hide the gifts you got for Miguel. Of course, it’s healed now like other injuries have in the past regardless of how big or small, physical or emotional.

Time heals all.

Usually.

You turn towards the closet where you hit yourself that day. Before you know it, you’ve opened the door and stare at the top of it. Your eyes find Peter’s box with all of his belongings, the same one you haven’t opened since you packed it.

And today is still not that day.

You close the door again and lean back on it, the sunset filtering through the window. Silently, you wonder if Miguel is watching it, too, from his own room.

You almost wish you could send him a message, but that would be insensitive and inappropriate when he’s in such a mood.

Are you watching the sunset, too?

You scoff to yourself. Yeah, not the best time.

Isn’t it beautiful? The colors - that shade of red.

It reminds you of Miguel’s eyes.

Shaking your head at your random thought, you sit down on the chair within your room and stare at the sunset some more. You remain like that until the sun fully disappears, still thinking about him and wishing you knew what is bothering him.

It’s a few minutes after the sun sets that you stand up and do a little organizing around your room. You know you’re only trying to distract yourself from Miguel but you accept the distraction happily. It’s the only way you can stop thinking about him and wondering what’s going on, analyzing your actions and words from the last few days before his mood changed. Your organizing halts half an hour later when you hear Miguel’s bedroom door open.

You frown, knowing you’re only able to hear it because he wants you to. He always goes out of his way to make as little noise as possible in case you’re taking a nap or simply to avoid disrupting you.

You don’t hear his footsteps however. You hardly do. For a man his size, you’d think you’d hear them, but no. He’s so silent.

For a moment, you wonder if he even left his room. You foolishly hope that he’s opened the door to give you a sign, one that means he’s better and ready to interact, but your hopes are shattered when you receive the notification from your gizmo.

“I’m at the gym.” - M

A part of you wants to change into workout clothes and go to the gym just to be near him, even if you keep your distance, but no.

You recognize when someone wants space - when someone wishes to be alone.

Miguel wants that now, so, you stay put in the penthouse instead, though you can’t find it in yourself to do something relaxing such as reading a book, or watching a movie or show. You don’t engage with any of your hobbies, old or new. Instead, you slip on headphones and do chores like laundry and vacuuming the living room’s rug. You wipe the ceiling to floor windows of both the living and dining area rooms, needing no ladder thanks to your spider abilities as you listen to music.

You go through an entire album, marking an hour. You play another one, focusing on other chores like drying the dishes and placing them back where they go. You adjust the couches and fix your blanket. You dust the bookcases and Miguel’s new photographs before you sweep the living room, using some advanced broom despite having robot vacuums to take care of it.

Back at the kitchen, you wipe the counters once more and then sweep that area, too. You even venture to the other living room, the one that’s for entertaining guests, and repeat the process all over again.

You keep listening to music, the hours tick by. It’s eventually eleven and Miguel is still at the gym. You only know he’s still there because Lyla tells you so. After all the chores and restlessness, you take a shower before going to bed at last, even though you simply lay there, staring at the ceiling - alone in the penthouse.

You grow restless staring at the four walls, so you eventually get up and leave your room. You stand in the hallway of the second floor, noticing the silence and darkness. It brings a thought to mind, but one you immediately push away.

After standing there for a few minutes, you finally head downstairs. Your steps are the only sound as you reach the living room where one single lamp remains on, one that you left on for Miguel for when he comes home. You also left small lamps on in the other living room and another one in the kitchen so he can see where he’s going when he comes back.

It’s past midnight when you turn to the windows and stare out at Nueva York. You bring your hands to your arms, hugging yourself with a deep sigh.

Is Miguel even coming back to the penthouse tonight? Or, will he stay at the gym all night?

Minutes tick by as you keep your gaze on the city, waiting.

You wait, and wait. And wait.

“Lyla?” you break the silence several minutes later.

“Yeah?” Lyla appears next to you, her voice gentle to avoid startling you.

“Can you please turn off all the lights?”

At that, Lyla turns to you, a frown on her face as she processes the odd request. “Turn off the lights? Why?”

“Please,” you whisper, still hugging yourself and staring out the windows.

Despite her confusion and the urge to question and deny your request, Lyla does as you’ve asked. She turns off every single light, leaving the penthouse in utter darkness, save for some spaces that are somewhat illuminated by the outside.

You turn away from the windows and stare at the living room and the rest of the penthouse. Everything is dark. And you’re alone.

Your thought from earlier comes back as you take in your surroundings.

This is what it’s like for Miguel - what it was like back then when he lost Gabriella. All alone, sitting in darkness and silence with so many running emotions all on his own.

“This is what it was like,” you whisper.

“What was what like?” Lyla asks, still hovering near you.

“Miguel. After everything that happened with Gabriella.”

Lyla nods, now understanding what’s going on, recalling those nights. “Yes, this is what the penthouse looked and felt like on those nights - and there was something heavy that lingered in the space. I don’t like to think about those nights.”

“I understand,” you whisper, imagining what Lyla has shared.

She nods, still staring at the darkness. A frown is visible on her face. It bothers her to see you like this. “I’m turning the lights on.”

“Is Miguel still at the gym?”

“Yeah. He’s been working out, almost nonstop for hours.”

You nod. He’s been trying to distract himself with that. From what? You don’t know.

”Lyla?”

“Yes?”

“… I know I shouldn’t ask…”

“You want to know what’s happening.”

“Yes.”

Lyla sighs, or replicates doing so anyway as you turn to face her at last, still hugging yourself. She sits down and adjusts her heart shape glasses. “I’m honestly surprised Miguel hasn’t told you, but I suppose he still has some healing to do despite all the progress he’s done in the last year,” she says, staring at you. “I guess it’s why he still finds it hard to talk about her.”

Her.

“Gabriella. It’s about Gabby,” you state.

“Yes. Tomorrow…” Lyla sighs again. “Tomorrow, or well, I guess today, considering the time now, would’ve been… her birthday.”

Suddenly everything clicks into place.

Lyla watches the way your shoulders slump, the realization hitting you, and how your entire face changes to one of understanding and pain.

“Miguel,” you sigh, understanding everything now. No wonder he’s been so different lately, he’s been thinking about Gabby’s upcoming birthday for days. Probably thinking about what age she’d be turning today. Now more than earlier, you feel like going to look for him, to comfort him somehow, to be near him to offer at least your presence, but you’re reminded that Miguel doesn’t want that. At least, you don’t believe so. If he did, he’d be here in the penthouse, not at the gym alone.

“You should get some rest,” Lyla suggests. “I know that’s probably the last thing you want to do now but… Miguel would feel far more guilty if he knows he’s been keeping you up. I’m certain he already feels upset with himself for how different he’s been the last few days.”

“I don’t think I can sleep, but I know I can’t go and look for him,” you reply.

“No, that would upset him even more. He doesn’t like disturbing you, or rather worrying you.”

“Right,” you respond, even though you wish to run and find him right now. “I’ll be in my room. Please make sure those lights remain on. I don’t want him to come back to…”

“Darkness.”

You nod.

“The lights will remain on, no worries,” she reassures you. “Try to sleep a bit. I’ll keep an eye out for him, too. If something comes up, I’ll wake you up.”

Lyla “walks” you to your room, feeling the need to look after you. You’re after all, her boss’s best friend. Looking after you is her looking after Miguel, one of her integral designs.

You settle down on the bed, covering your body with the bed sheets, your mind running wild with thoughts. Lyla wishes you a good night after several minutes of her simply hanging out around the room, knowing you’re not much for conversation now that you know the reason for Miguel’s current behavior, before she flickers away.

Alone, you’re back to staring at the ceiling and the walls in an empty penthouse. It’s close to two in the morning when you hear subtle footsteps. They slow down in front of your bedroom, stopping by the door.

For a moment, you wonder if Miguel will come in, deciding to talk to you, even if he thinks he’ll have to wake you up. Instead, you hear a soft sigh before the footsteps continue, fading once Miguel enters his bedroom.

You’re not sure if Miguel gets any sleep, even though you’re tempted to ask Lyla. A part of you refuses to continue invading his privacy by having Lyla tell you what he’s up to, so you don’t. You stay up for a while, staring at the walls, tossing and turning. You eventually doze off despite wanting to remain awake, waking up at six only to be told by Lyla that Miguel has already been at HQ for an hour.

Tired, you start the day knowing what today is.

Gabby’s birthday.

As you move about the penthouse, you wonder how old she would’ve turned today. The few images you have of her pop into your mind along with the few videos Miguel has of her - almost like a movie, and one too short, like her life.

You ask Lyla what Miguel has done. Apparently, he’s been working on data since he showed up.

Downstairs, you find a sticky note on the counter. Ever since you began living with him, you started the habit of leaving him sticky notes around the place, something Miguel has begun to reciprocate. Like the previous day, he’s left you another one today.

I’m at HQ. - Miguel

You make yourself a coffee and gulp it down in a few drinks, needing the caffeine. You debate doing your morning patrol, but eventually decide to do it anyway, thinking it’ll give you time to think. Swinging around your city and watching from rooftops on your own, you question whether you should talk to Miguel, let him know that you’re aware of what today is, but you quickly change your mind.

You imagine Miguel might not be pleased to know that Lyla told you, so you decide not to say anything, at least for now. You’ll have to pretend that you don’t know the reason he’s hurting.

Back at HQ, you walk around the building and check on things, trying to distract yourself. It’s nine in the morning when you decide to grab some breakfast from the cafeteria for both Miguel and you. You’re unsure of what the day or Miguel will be like when it’s Gabby’s birthday, but you definitely know that you want to look after him, even if it’s only by making sure he’s eating properly.

With breakfast in your hands, you begin to head to the lab with hope. You’ve only taken about twenty steps when you receive a notification through your gizmo from Jess, which you quickly realize was sent to everyone.

“For all questions or concerns, direct yourself with me. Miguel is busy. Do not disturb him.” - Jess

Lowering your arm, you wonder if that message applies to you, too.

Standing in the middle of a corridor, hands occupied with food, it suddenly feels a lot like the time you entered Miguel’s lab and found him overwhelmed, upset, but more than anything, hurt at the discovery of hidden photos and videos of Gabby and his wife by Lyla. You recall the way it felt to have stepped into the lab and you wonder now if that’s what awaits for you because you quickly make up your mind.

You’re ignoring Jess’s message.

Two years ago, you would've simply oblige and made no questions. You would’ve try not to think about your boss and wonder what he did all day, wondered if anyone dropped off food for him, or if he even left the lab in his own discrete ways to eat and drink something, to nourish his body. You would've hoped that he'd at least let either Jess or Peter B. check on him.

Two years ago, you wouldn't had done it yourself nor pushed his boundaries because you were a simple member, not one of his close ones.

Two years ago, that would’ve been the end of it, even if you silently worried about Miguel from a distance.

Today? Things are different.

Two years ago Miguel and you hardly talked, hardly interacted.

Now, you're best friends, and best friends don't leave each other alone. They don't give up on you. They keep trying just like Miguel said Harry and your other former friends from a lifetime ago should’ve with you.

With a determined nod, you continue to make your way to Miguel's lab. As usual, there's other spider members walking around. You catch a few checking their gizmos, making you wonder if they’re reading Jess’s message regarding Miguel. You nod at a few, at least at those you're not too familiar with or who might be new. To those you do know and have more of a bond with, you give them a quick and simple greeting, not opening for conversation, not when you want to see Miguel already.

You turn the corner and it’s only thanks to your spidey senses going off that you don’t run into -

“Ben,” you say, recognizing him instantly.

Ben Reilly's eyebrows shoot up, surprise visible on his face. He shifts slightly. “Y/N… Hey.” He offers a smile, scratching his neck.

“Hey,” you greet him back, returning a small smile even though you're in a rush. “I'll see you around!” you say, walking around him, determined to reach your destination.

“Hey, Y/N!” Ben calls out, turning to face you quickly. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something…?”

You turn to face him, walking backwards with both your hands occupied with the food and drinks.

“Of course. Can we talk …” you trail off. “Later? I'm in the middle of something. I'm sorry,” you apologize softly.

He sighs subtly, his shoulders slumping just barely before he fixes his excellent posture. “I understand. I'll look for you later today.”

“Alright. That sounds good. I'll see you later, Ben. Careful if you go on missions!” You offer him a quick smile before you turn away once more and hurry off, leaving Ben behind.

He sighs again, running a hand through his hair that earns him a few glances of interest from other spider members. He watches you become smaller and smaller as you retrace steps you take each day.

Everyone knows where you're going and who you're seeking: the one person they were told to not disturb today.

That person’s door is closed to them but not for a few people like Jess Drew, Peter B. Parker, and now you.

He huffs and turns away, heading to the training sector for a workout session to sweat his frustrations away. He turns for one more glance, seeing you disappear into the elevator and heading for Miguel's floor.

You reach the lab doors, wondering if you’ll be turned away. A few seconds later, relief washes over you when Lyla confirms, after asking Miguel, that you can go in.

As far as Miguel knows, you have no idea what today is, so you offer him breakfast, which he thankfully accepts. You both sit on his elevated platform and eat in silence, legs dangling from it. As you eat, you remind yourself that you agreed to saying nothing, to pretend like you don’t know. You stay true to that even though your mind is a mess, even though you want to do more than just offer Miguel food.

However, you say nothing as you eat. Even after breakfast, you reveal nothing. You don’t want Miguel to feel pressured to say anything just because you know, behind his back. No, if he says anything, you hope it’s because Miguel is ready and comfortable doing so.

So, you stick with him for a while, working silently from your own area in the lab now knowing that his behavior has nothing to do with something you may have done or said, or your mere presence as you were worrying about yesterday. At some point you leave him because you’re needed by Jess, so you do so reluctantly.

For lunch time, it’s the same with the small difference that you both make small talk. The hours tick by and when you look at your gizmo, it’s suddenly three in the afternoon. Due to Jess’s warning, no one sends Miguel messages except for Jess, nor does anyone show up to the lab. It’s just Miguel, Lyla, and you.

You yourself get a few messages from the spider gang, asking if Miguel is alright and why you’ve been hiding at his lab all day. You reassure them both Miguel and you are physically alright. You don’t know what else to say. It’s not your place to share something so sensitive and personal, especially when you’re not supposed to even know.

Standing up, you stretch quietly, remembering that Ben Reilly wanted to talk to you. You figure you should make yourself available at least for an hour. He hasn’t sent you any messages, so you wonder if he’s already aware that you’ve been at Miguel’s lab for the majority of the day, hence the reason for the lack of messages from his end. You pack your things silently, shutting the laptop and fixing the area, which catches Miguel’s attention.

On his platform, he turns to look at you. Seeing you pack up makes him realize you’re probably not coming back because if you were, you would be leaving your desk as it was. Watching you push the chair under the desk only solidifies the fact.

“Heading… out?” Miguel asks, starting the conversation for the first time in days.

It catches you by surprise, so much it’s clearly expressed on your face. It immediately pains Miguel, to see how surprised you are that he’s talking to you. His hands close into fists at his sides, cursing mentally.

“… Yes,” you reply, picking up your empty cup. “I’m heading out.”

Miguel nods, his expression neutral but quickly morphing into a pained one.

“Migs…?” you say softly, quickly noticing his expression changing.

“Mierda [shit],” Miguel whispers, looking away and unable to stop himself from thinking he’s undeserving of your nickname. A nickname, or a term of endearment, is a gesture from someone who cares about you, and here he is, hurting you with his behavior. Seeing the surprise look on your face just seconds ago solidifies that. Miguel’s guilt only intensifies as the look on your face flashes in his mind. You don’t hurt those that you care for and care about you, but now he has hurt you to some degree.

“Miguel?” you try again.

“I’m - I’m sorry,” Miguel says, exhaling deeply with a remorseful tone. “I’m … sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Hearing Miguel say that throws all ideas about leaving out the window. You place the cup down and make your way to him, his head hanging low.

“Miguel,” you say once more, gently.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, lifting his head enough so you can see his face.

“Don’t,” you say. “Don’t apologize.”

“You deserve an apology,” Miguel replies. “I’ve been - I haven’t been in a good mood… I need to tell you something.”

“You don’t have to, Miguel,” you counter gently.

“I do. You deserve an explanation,” Miguel continues with a sigh, shaking his head in frustration at himself. “I saw the surprise on your face from me talking to you. You shouldn’t be surprised by that, but you are because I’ve been - a jerk.”

You sigh, standing on his platform. “You’re not a jerk, Miguel.” You state firmly. “I… I was wondering what was the matter,” you pause, wanting to be honest. “Don’t be mad at Lyla but… She told me a few hours ago. Some time before you returned to the penthouse this morning from the gym.”

“Lyla,” Miguel says, not even upset. “A part of me is relieved you already know… I should’ve told you sooner, but I couldn’t…” Miguel shakes his head, his eyes closed. He gulps softly. “It’s her birthday,” Miguel whispers, finally sharing from his own lips what has been on his mind all these past few days. ”Today is Gabby’s birthday.”

Nodding, you take a step closer. “I know,” you start. “I know it’s her birthday…” you reply, not knowing what else to say right now. To be honest, you weren’t expecting Miguel to tell you today. “I know it must be hard to share that,” you add softly.

Miguel sighs gently, nodding. “May I be honest?”

“Yeah, of course,” you whisper.

“I don’t want to be here right now.”

Your eyebrows furrow and you’re filled with worry instantly, for a second thinking that Miguel means something else, something much sadder, darker.

“I want to be home,” he goes on, clarifying. “I don’t want to be here, trying to distract myself from my thoughts about her.”

You sigh in relief, nodding. “We can go home, if you want?”

Miguel nods, wanting now more than ever to leave his lab. “Lyla, please let Jess know I’m going home,” Miguel says before correcting himself. “Let her know we’re both going home, dulzura and me.”

-♡-

Back at home, Miguel takes a shower while you begin to prepare an early dinner. You know that there’s essentially nothing in the whole multiverse that can lessen Miguel’s hurt today, but you hope that a homemade meal will sooth his heart just a little.

When he comes back downstairs, showered and dressed in lounging clothes, you fix him a plate before joining him. He doesn’t say anything else about Gabby, which you respect. You’re grateful he’s at least told you about Gabby’s birthday and that you’re both home eating together instead of him staying after hours at HQ before coming home and hiding at the gym.

Even after dinner and cleaning the kitchen, you’re unsure of what to do. You search for silent cues from Miguel. Does he want to be alone or is he okay with you being near him? You receive your answer when Miguel asks if you want to watch TV together, a question that leaves you a little surprised to start with, but one you answer with a “yes.”

You sit together in the living room. As always, you’re both on your respective couches.

Miguel watches the TV, or tries to. His attention is not fully on it for obvious reasons. Gabby is always on his mind, along with Gabriel, but due to her birthday coming up, she’s been even more so. He’s been thinking about it for days, about his little girl and how old she’d be turning today. It pains him so much, knowing she’s not here. He’s been trying to distract himself with work at HQ and then working out at the gym, going for hours so he doesn’t think about the fact that Gabby isn’t here - that she won’t be celebrating her birthday like she should.

He turns his head to look at the windows, the sun setting now. He’s reminded of yesterday when he was in his room after dinner. He found himself watching the sunset from there and in that short amount of time while the sun dipped, he thought about you. He heard you entering your room shortly after him and he wondered if you were watching it, too. He typed the message but before sending it, he changed his mind.

Miguel turns to look at you now, sitting on the couch, keeping him company. His guilt washes over him again at the sight. You denied it earlier but he’s such a jerk for the way he’s been behaving, there’s no way to deny it, at least not in his eyes.

He sighs. He promised he was going to try, didn’t he? He promised for Gabby and Gabriel. He was going to try to heal, to move forward.

It’s that thought that compels Miguel to stand up from the couch, telling you that he’d be back before heading upstairs.

You simply nod and stay in place, hoping Miguel truly does come back. To your relief, Miguel returns a few minutes later, holding a guitar.

You recognize it instantly from Miguel’s ofrenda [altar] for Día de los Muertos [Day of the Dead] as Miguel approaches you, who then takes a seat on the ground next to you. You join him a few seconds later without a doubt, watching him hold the guitar carefully.

“It’s the only thing… The only physical reminder I have left of Gabby. It was pure… Coincidence that I still have it,” Miguel shares, staring at the guitar. “A day before her universe collapsed, she asked me to fix the strings for her, so I brought it to HQ to work on it. Unfortunately, there were a lot of things happening that day. It was one thing or another. Every time I lifted it to begin working on it, something or someone would pop up and prevent me from doing so. I ended up forgetting it at HQ that day. With so much happening, I left it in my lab. It was much later when I remembered it. That last night. When I got back to her universe just in time for school to be out, she didn’t ask for it. She was so tired from the school day, she didn’t remember it. Not even later in the afternoon when she was done with school work and was free to do what she wanted, whether that was coloring, or playing with her toys, or practicing the guitar. It was me who remembered it when I tucked her in for the night.”

Miguel brushes his fingers over the strings, gently. “I told myself I’d fix the guitar as soon as I got to the lab, so I could take it back to her… So I could hear her play it in the afternoon the next day.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “I had no idea that would be the last night… ever.”

Miguel doesn’t know why, but suddenly he feels like talking about that last night. He’s shared with you the last morning he spent with Gabby, just hours before one of the worst moments of his life took place.

“I used to think… After losing Gabriel, that nothing could ever hurt me as much. That there was nothing much worse that could happen to me. Nothing could ever, make me feel so much sorrow, grief, pain - and I was wrong. I never thought that I’d become a dad,” Miguel states, looking over the guitar, at the stickers that Gabby placed on it. “I never thought that I’d experience that, much less the loss of a child. I think - I know - a part of me always believed I was unworthy of such thing. I wasn’t meant for that life. Wasn’t meant to experience it. I was destined to be alone,” he continues. “And then she happened, and she - she was and continues to be one of the most beautiful things I’ve had the privilege of experiencing.”

Miguel shifts slightly, knowing you’re listening to him, like always.

“That last night, my wife and I cooked dinner. It was a normal evening, like any other. Gabby did her homework, got to play with her dolls afterwards. She had a lot, you know, but her favorites were the doctor and scientist dolls. Part of it was because they looked like her, and another part because of their professions.” Miguel smiles slightly, a sad smile. “In the short time I had with her, I always told her so. How they were mini versions of her in the future because she was so bright, so smart. I’d always tell her that she could do and be anything she wanted. I never once dampened her dreams nor her aspirations. I wanted her to know that she could be a scientist, or she could be a teacher, or she could be a bakery owner. It didn’t matter. As long as she wanted it and worked towards it, she could achieve anything, but I digress,” Miguel says, realizing he’s all over the place.

“She played with her dolls and showered afterwards. I arranged her school stuff for the morning. I always helped her prep her outfit the night before to save time in the morning, and made sure her backpack was set with her assistance to help her build responsibility, too, though I never struggled with that. She was so responsible for her age. She watched some TV that evening, and then, it was time for bed. I never missed bedtime,” Miguel continues, a fond smile on his face, his fingers splayed over the guitar.

“I loved tucking her in, reading to her. I’d climb into the bed to read to her sometimes. It was always a struggle, of course, and my back would be tense in the mornings, but it was worth it. So worth it. What I’d give… to repeat those moments. To be back in that cheerful bedroom and have her ask questions while seeking the comfort of her father… of her daddy.” Miguel sighs, thinking about that. How his heart would swell with a pure happiness unlike any other when she called him “dad” or “daddy.”

“I read to her that night and soon, she was drifting off. Sus ojitos [her little eyes; little is used as endearment, not meaning she had small eyes]… Her little eyes would flutter, trying to fight off the sleep to keep talking about the book. She’d blink real hard,” Miguel says with a soft chuckle, inhaling deeply and shakily. “Thinking it’d help her stay awake longer, but my little girl, she eventually doze off into a peaceful slumber with no worries. I was grateful for that, you know?” Miguel says turning to look at you. “There is no doubt in my mind that the original Miguel of that dimension was grateful for that, too. Gabby didn’t know what it was like to be ripped away from a peaceful dream because of your parents’ arguing in the living room. Nor did she have to worry about a younger sibling coming to her room to seek her comfort. I was always grateful that Miguel, the original of that dimension, had succeeded in providing such a safe space for her. And I was set on doing the same for her. I succeeded, too. So… she dozed off. I held her close,” Miguel whispers, recalling how it felt to hold his sleeping daughter in his arms.

“I remember thinking, ‘just a few more minutes. One day she’ll be all grown up, she may not want her dad’s affection anymore because she finds it embarrassing or uncool.’ So, I did. I stayed there with her. Now I wonder, if something deep inside me felt the danger coming. If I had sensed it somehow and I wanted to hold on to that moment - to her - just a little longer because something in me knew... knew that that would be the very last time I’d ever get to hold her like that, in such calm manner because the next day would be the very last time I held her, but under much different circumstances. That it’d be outside the comfort of her home with hundreds of frightened people running around us, seeking a safety that I couldn’t give to them because I didn’t understand what was happening.”

“Miguel,” you whisper gently, knowing to this day he blames himself for the collapse of Gabriella’s universe despite there being no evidence of such thing.

“I know,” he whispers back. “You’re too kind to me, so you don’t think I had something to do with it, but… my brain tells me so.”

“We still don’t know, you know that. There’s no evidence that suggests you did. Just because you were there, doesn’t mean you were responsible. It doesn’t make sense when so many of us have done the same, and yet those universes are still… here.” You inhale softly, hating the fact that Miguel still blames himself. You know it’s something that will take him time to let go, maybe until there’s further evidence that suggests otherwise. In Miguel’s mind, it’s not ‘innocent until proven guilty.’

It’s guilty until proven innocent.

“It probably doesn’t mean anything,” you start. “Because I know how these feelings can be rooted deep in us, despite any comforting words… but I don’t think you had anything to do with it, Miguel.”

He looks at you then, the pain in his eyes visible. “But what if it was me? I took everything from her. If I had stayed away - her universe might still be intact. She would be alive. She’d be celebrating today like she ought to,” Miguel says with desperation in his tone. “I ruined it. I should’ve never gone. I should’ve let things carry on like they were supposed to,” he insists.

“Miguel,” you say his name again but this time not in a whisper. You speak firmly, evenly. You almost lift your hand to place it on his shoulder but you remember not to. “I’m not saying that only because you’re my best friend,” you continue. “I wholeheartedly believe that you weren’t the cause. You’re not responsible for it. There’s something we’ve overlooked, the real cause. I have no doubt one day we’ll discover it, and it’ll show you that you were not at fault.”

“But what if I was?” he repeats. “She could’ve been alive today.”

“I’ve told you I don’t believe you are responsible. You know that, Miguel, but maybe there’s a chance she might have still been alive, if it wasn’t for the true cause of her universe’s collapse.” Next to you, Miguel huffs in frustration, as if he’s upset at your relentless faith that he had nothing to do with it. It frustrates you, the fact that he thinks you’re just trying to sooth his guilt. “Do you think it’s my fault Peter… passed away?”

That makes Miguel turn before he lowers the guitar to his lap. “What - no, of course not, dulzura. It wasn’t your fault,” he says, brows furrowed.

“Are you only saying that to make me feel better? Because we’re best friends?”

“Dulzura… No, of course not. It wasn’t your fault, and I mean that.”

“Then, can you believe that when I tell you that I don’t think you are responsible, I don’t say it only to make you feel better? Can you believe that I say it because I really do believe it?” you ask, holding his gaze with such a serious face that leaves no room for doubt or questioning.

Miguel blinks, keeping his gaze on you for several seconds. His gaze searches your face, so serious. He silently decides he doesn’t like such look on you - he prefers to see you smile, prefers the brightness in your eyes when you’re happy, when you’re in good spirits, but that serious face… Miguel sees you truly believe what you’re saying. You’re not only saying it to make him feel better, to reassure him, and lessen his guilt and pain. At last, he nods slowly.

“I can… a part of me can, but another part of me still feels an incredible guilt that I swear will never fade, no matter how much time passes,” he states softly. “I think about what she could’ve had, where she could’ve been. What she’d be in the future, the amazing things she could’ve done, and experienced.”

You sigh softly and nod. With deceased loved ones, there’s always those questions, especially when they pass away too soon, when there was so much for them to live and experience. You yourself have thought about Peter and all the things he never had the opportunity to experience nor accomplish. Then, there’s also the things that he didn’t even get a chance to wish for, or dream about. By now, he may have accomplished all his previous goals and dreams, and he might have been on to newer ones, but you’ll never know now. Still, you know that for however long he was alive, he lived a good life despite the few tragedies he experienced early on in life. He was a happy man, and he loved and was loved deeply.

“I know it’s a different age with Peter. He had the opportunity to live more but… That always hurt me to think about, too,” you admit. “About all the goals and dreams he had, about the ones he didn’t even get to think of.” You pause, looking at your hand for a few seconds. “A wise man once said, that seven years count the same as seventy, even seven hundred.” Looking up again, you find Miguel’s crimson eyes on the same hand you were just staring at before he lifts his gaze to yours. He raises an eyebrow, wondering, so you continue.

“Someone may live to ninety years and we think, ‘Wow. They’re so lucky.’ We imagine they lived and experienced so much, but that’s not always the case. Someone who only got to live nine or twenty-three years old may have lived more than the ninety year old person has. Just because we’ve had more years to live doesn’t mean we’ve actually lived, not for all of them,” you say softly, looking away. “I didn’t live for many years. I stopped when I lost Peter.”

Hearing you say that breaks Miguel’s heart, brings him so much pain.

“It’s probably… stupid and maybe even cringe,” you say with a smile and shrug, which for some reason pains Miguel even more. “My heart functioned, and I was alive, but I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t actually live over that time. And I didn’t even realize until much later, when I joined the Spider Society, how dull I had truly become. There’s still moments, even now, when I realize that all over again. Like, when I look at sunsets and realize I looked at sunsets during those times but I wasn’t really looking at them… if that makes sense. It was as if I was looking through a screen, someone else’s life. And then, I started to learn to live again. So… I’m sure you know where I’m getting at with this,” you say, looking at him again, at last.

“Gabby may have only lived for nine years but every single one of them counted as living. Her biological father, from what you’ve shared, loved her so much and gave her a safe and comfortable life with so much love, which you continue when you stepped up to be her dad. In her nine years of life… She knew and most importantly, felt, the important things. Unconditional love. Comfort. Happiness. Safety. That’s more than some ninety, or even forty year old have ever experienced despite being alive for several decades… because they haven’t lived. I wish Peter… Gabby, Gabriel - were here now. That they were able to still be here and live longer. That wish will never fade, not truly, I don’t think, but personally?” You offer Miguel a smile. “I’m thankful Peter knew and felt all those things - that he was able to experience them when so many don’t.”

With that, you look away and lean back on the couch, allowing Miguel to either absorb your words, or reject them.

“She was loved,” Miguel states almost a minute later of silence. “She was so loved. By both her biological dad, and then me. I’m grateful for that,” he whispers. “I’m grateful she knew love, kindness. That she knew happiness, comfort, and safety. Like every child should.” Whispering that, Miguel sighs. His head lowers to look at the guitar, his mind flooded with memories of Gabby being happy. He can’t help but feel a new wave of guilt at the fact that on a day that she’d be very happy on, he’s feeling this way.

Like a bolt of lightning, he’s reminded of Gabriel suddenly, of his words, to be exact, from his dream a year ago. He asked Miguel to live for them. Then, there’s also your words from a few weeks ago when you witnessed one of his nightmares for the first time. You said to honor them - to live how they would live if they were here.

Thinking about that, Miguel clears his throat. “You always bake a cake for Peter on his birthday.”

“I do,” you reply, looking over at him with curiosity. You didn’t expect the sudden change of conversation.

“You do it because that’s what you would’ve done if he was still around.”

“Yes.”

Miguel nods, thinking. He’s never bought or baked a cake for Gabriel or his mother. He’s never celebrated their birthdays after they passed away. That includes Gabriella.

He looks down at his gizmo. It’s not too late… Surely a bakery is still open. Maybe they still have cakes.

“Miguel?” you ask softly, noticing him looking at his gizmo.

“I… I think I want to buy her a cake,” he says looking up at you.

“You… do?”

Miguel nods, rapidly realizing he really wants to do this. “Yes. I want to. She deserves it.” He places the guitar on the coffee table and begins to stand up. “I’m going to check the bakeries and see if I can find a cake she’d like. Maybe I’ll have luck.”

Noticing Miguel begin to stand up, you stand up, too, and before you can stop yourself, you make an offer. “I can bake her one, if you want.”

Miguel freezes, looking at you. “You?… Really?” he asks, his entire face softening and lighting up. His tone is gentle, filled with awe and wonder, as if you’ve just made him the greatest offer in history.

With a nod, you smile and reply. “Yes, really. We can bake one together, if you want to help. You know I love baking, so I have almost anything I could need to bake a cake. Just say the word, Migs,” you answer softly.

The nickname, your smile, and offer brings a smile to Miguel’s face. He nods slowly, standing completely now. “Si, por favor [yes, please]. That would mean so much to me… and Gabby.”

You gesture to the kitchen. “C’mon.”

Miguel follows after you, carrying Gabby’s guitar, so precious to him.

You set the oven to preheat, already knowing how to use it since you’ve baked a lot at the penthouse since you’ve lived here. You have Miguel decide the shape, so you find the round cake mold when he politely requests a round one. He retrieves the mixer and the few ingredients he knows will be used, letting you tell him what else is needed so he can help.

As you stated, you have a little of everything so you give him plenty of options for the type of bread, filling, and icing.

Miguel quickly decides the filling should be out of strawberries since Gabby loved them, apparently they were her favorite fruit. For the actual bread, he decides to go with chocolate - it was also a favorite of little Gabby.

Once that’s settled, you begin working with the help of Miguel though your years of baking do not require it. You let him though because you know it’s special to him. It’s for his little girl, after all. So you let him pour the ingredients into the mixing bowl while you work on other things towards the cake.

The more you move through the process together, the more Miguel slowly begins to tell you about Gabby. It’s as if his mind is flooded with random little memories all fighting for his attention. You listen intently to every word, smiling and chuckling with him when he tells you something funny she did or said once.

He’s already shared some of the moments he talks about, but you still listen to him, noticing the glimmer of happiness in his eyes while talking about his Gabby.

As you bake and Miguel shares with you all these moments, you picture them in your head. You see Miguel carrying Gabby on his shoulders, her toothy smile on display. You see Gabby giggling when Miguel accidentally let go of the hair tie and it snapped against his finger while doing her hair. There’s Miguel making Gabby Choco Milk in her favorite cup, and the one time Gabby asked where babies came from out of nowhere, which Miguel didn’t know how to answer in the moment, so he told her he’d find that out and let her know later on.

“What about music?” you ask softly when you pull the pan out of the oven a while later. “What did she like? You’ve mentioned her favorite song before… ‘Luna de Xelajú’, but what else did she like?”

Miguel smiles softly at the fact that you remember her favorite song. “That was her favorite song, yes. She liked other songs, of course. Different genres and artists of all ages. She even liked Joan Sebastian,” Miguel says amused. “She sang some of his songs like she understood matters of the heart already. Then, there were some that always made her dance, like this song called ‘No rompas mi corazón’ - there’s a dance for it. It’s played at parties sometimes,” Miguel shares, not sure if you’re familiar with it.

“It’s something like this,” Lyla says popping out of nowhere, showing you a video of people dancing at a party.

“I know of it,” you say with a smile, not surprised that Lyla has made an appearance. She tends to pop up sometimes out of nowhere when both Miguel and you least expect her. “So Gabby danced to it?”

“Yeah, she’d hear it and it’s like her feet were tingling to move. She’d get so excited every time it came on,” he says with a smile. “She’d dance and look at me and say ‘¡mira, mira, papá! [look, look, papa]’… But there was one artist she absolutely adored, her favorite artist. Selena.”

“Selena?” you ask, surprised. Of course you know of her. “A version of her existed in Gabby’s universe?”

“Yes, but unlike in so many universes where her life is cut short, this version peacefully passed away before Gabby was born out of old age. She had a large and happy family. Gabby told me so,” Miguel says. “She knew a lot about her.”

“What was her favorite song of hers?”

Miguel smiles. “It was ‘Baila Esta Cumbia’ - she’d dance to it, too.”

“Do you want me to… play it?” Lyla asks Miguel while you work on the cake, wondering what his answer will be. It might be too soon for him.

Miguel stays silent for several seconds, thinking. It’s been so long since he’s heard the song, or any of the music that Gabby used to enjoy listening.

“Lyla can always turn it off,” you offer softly as you work, glancing at him for a few seconds before continuing to work on the cake. “If you decide to.”

He hums softly at your words, drumming his fingers against his thigh. At last, he nods to Lyla and a few seconds later, the upbeat song begins to play, filling the kitchen and lifting the mood.

Miguel watches you work on the cake, his finger tapping against his thigh to the beat, thinking about Gabby.

“If only she were here now,” he mumbles softly. He wonders if she’d still like the song, or if she’d have a new favorite song by Selena, if she’d still even be a fan of Selena to begin with. He wonders, just like he wonders about other things, what her music taste would be like now.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter and interlocking his fingers to press against his forehead, looking at the counter surface for a few seconds before closing his eyes and just listening to the song.

He can pretend for a few seconds that she’s here, that she’s singing happily to the song and doing her little dances. He hears the ‘eh, eh, eh,’ part and recalls how she’d sing that part, clapping her small hands to it.

He uncovers his face, lowering his hands to the counter. “You heard that part? The ‘eh, eh, eh?’ She used to clap along with it,” Miguel shares, smiling softly. “She was always so elated when it played. It cheered her up.”

Miguel makes it without crying for the rest of the song, so Lyla deems it safe to play other songs she thinks are appropriate for what could’ve been Gabby’s birthday party. She keeps it light with the music as you work on the cake while Miguel shares other tidbits of Gabby.

After some time, you add the last candle before turning it around so Miguel can see it, his eyes softening immediately at the finished cake.

“What do you think?” you ask him as his eyes take in every detail about it.

He nods, eyebrows knitted gently before he turns his attention to you, smiling tenderly. “It’s… Beautiful, dulzura,” he states softly, his tone full of sincerity. “It’s so Gabby. She would’ve loved it, I know that. Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he whispers accepting the cake as you hand it to him with a warm smile, happy that Miguel likes the cake.

You find a lighter and reach Miguel’s side, not worried about washing dishes since Miguel got most of them while you were working to help, and even then, neither of you would’ve cared in order to celebrate.

At last, you both look at it, at the completed cake, sitting side by side while music still plays in the background.

Miguel continues to observe it, admiring your work with the details like the little bees and the sprinkle of lilac flowers. He doesn’t fail to notice the color you used to write ‘Happy Birthday, Gabby!!’ with - the color Selena was most known for, that rich purple.

“She…” Miguel starts, his voice soft and quiet, as he thinks about her. About Gabby. “She would’ve loved it.” He whispers, a knot forming in his throat. “Thank you - she would’ve loved it, so much.”

“The bees and her favorite color,” you say. “I thought she might have.”

“She would. She really would,” Miguel replies lifting a hand to his face. He tries to be subtle about it, but from your peripheral vision, you can see the action, the way he wipes at his eye.

You feel tears yourself but for Miguel, you try to stay calm, try to be strong. However, seeing someone you care for so much cry has never made it easy. A few tears pool in your eyes, blurring your vision. Biting your bottom lip because you feel it quivering, you dab at your eyes gently, trying to make the gesture subtle, too.

“Do you want me to…?” you ask raising the lighter.

Miguel turns, sniffling. Noticing the lighter, he nods. “… Please,” he whispers.

Miguel doesn’t need to say anything else. His simple response is all you need, so you lit the candles carefully, watching the cake come to life with their flickering.

You both stare at it, unbeknownst to either of you, imagining the same thing: a Gabriella standing behind the counter, her eyes lit up with happiness, her face illuminated by the gentle glow of the candles. There’s a beautiful, toothy smile on her face as she listens to the people around her sing happy birthday before she gets to make a wish and blow the candles.

You can imagine Miguel taking pictures from the very back to avoid blocking anyone's views due to his height with a happy, warm, and sweet smile on his face to see his little girl turn one year older.

Then, there's Gabby looking at the camera still smiling once she has made her wish, guests cheering and clapping.

And maybe, just to keep up with traditions - Miguel would gently get a little bit of icing on Gabby’s nose with his hand, but remaining alert that no one tries to push his daughter into the cake.

“Están son… las mañanitas [these are… the beloved mornings],” Miguel starts singing, his voice low. “Que cantaba el rey David. Hoy por ser día de tu santo, te las cantamos a ti. Despierta - [That King David sang. Today being your saint’s day (same as birthday), we sing them for you. Wake up -]” Miguel pauses, inhaling sharply. “Mi niña, despierta. Mira que ya amaneció… ya los pajaritos cantan, la luna ya se metió [My little girl, wake up. Look, the sun is up… the little birds sing, the moon is gone]…” he sings softly, trailing off.

The next part of the song carries on, credit to Lyla. She starts playing it from where Miguel left off, Vicente Fernandez's voice filling the kitchen.

You sit by, listening to the music and how Miguel sings a song he's known and sang many times in his childhood for friends and Gabriel, but one he never had the opportunity to sing for Gabby.

Despite wanting to join him, you let Miguel do it on his own, respecting he’d want to do so.

“Con jazmines y flores, este día quiero adornar. Hoy, por ser día de tu santo, te venimos a cantar [With jasmine and flowers, this day I want to decorate. Today, for being your saint’s day, we come to sing],” Miguel finishes at last, his voice just a tad louder than when he first started. He clears his throat, wiping some tears from his eyes.

“Do you want to sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ too?” you ask gently.

“… Yeah, would you…?” he asks taking a moment to swallow. “Join me?”

Of course, you nod. How could you ever decline Miguel when it comes to his daughter? Never.

And so, the two of you sing to Gabby.

”Cha, cha, cha” Miguel adds at the end. He turns to face you, his cheeks dusted with redness. “We always did that in the family at the end. Right before the ‘queremos pastel’ and ‘que lo parta’ - Gabriel used to love that when he was little [we want cake; cut it (referring to the cake)],” Miguel shares a fond smile on his face, his eyes misty with tears before turning to look at the cake again.

By this point, the birthday girl should’ve made her wish and blown the candles. He swallows harshly, realizing. Someone needs to blow the candles. He pulls the cake closer to himself, feeling the heat from the candles. He turns to look at you then, a sudden thought popping into his mind.

“I was going to blow the candles… Would you like to do it with me?” Miguel asks softly, his eyes searching your face for any discomfort. He knows he might be asking for too much already. You’ve done so much by baking the cake, by being so thoughtful with the details that he has no doubt Gabby would’ve loved and gushed about.

Now, he’s asking this extra thing from you, asking you to join him in blowing the birthday candles for someone you didn’t have the opportunity to meet, but the way you talk about Gabby and how you look at her pictures on the wall lets Miguel know you care about her as if you had known her personally.

And not just Gabriella, but Gabriel, too. You’ve told him how you wish they were around, so you could’ve met them and known them, something that always makes his heart swell with tenderness and happiness. How he wishes they were around for that, too, to meet you.

Knowing how you feel about two of the most important people in his life, makes Miguel feel a little less worried. Still, he searches your face to make sure he isn’t placing you in an uncomfortable position. However, when he meets your eyes, he finds no discomfort at all.

You nod gently. “If you wish me to.”

“Yes, please. If you’re okay with it,” he replies, still holding your gaze, giving you an option.

“I’m okay with it... In honor of Gabby,” you respond warmly, images of the little girl still flashing in your mind, thinking how much different this would be if she was here.

Miguel might still have tears in his eyes, but they’d be happy ones. Maybe a little bittersweet knowing that his kid is growing older, but he’d be happy because he gets to celebrate his daughter - because he’s a dad and he has family.

You wonder if some spider members, like the spider gang, would’ve been invited to the party, whether it’d be a small or medium size gathering. You wonder what the decorations might be like. Miguel would’ve gone all out, no corners cut to celebrate, no doubt. He would’ve probably blown balloons and stuck decorations on the walls. He would’ve planned the party for weeks, so it would be perfect for Gabby.

He would’ve ordered a cake with plenty of time to make sure there were no problems. If he was unable to pick it up himself, he would’ve sent his most trusted person to pick it up. Probably not Miles after he share the incident with his dad’s cakes when he became captain though.

Maybe it would’ve been Jess if she was available. Or, maybe even Ben Reilly. Maybe his wife if they were still together.

Or maybe, he would’ve asked you if you were still friends in this alternative scenario.

Either way, the cake would’ve been left to someone trustworthy while Miguel got other things completed. There would’ve probably been party hats passed out, the penthouse filled with people. You wonder what Miguel would have ordered for food, or whether he might have cooked it himself because Gabby requested her favorite foods for her birthday.

You think back to Dia de los Muertos [Day of the Dead] and the foods Miguel offered for Gabby’s ofrenda [altar]. Would she had requested some of those foods? You remember she especially loved Miguel’s breakfasts, specifically pancakes with chocolate chips.

Perhaps Miguel would’ve made that for her this morning. He would’ve woken up early, but not to head to HQ. No, the reason why Miguel would’ve woken up early would’ve been to make Gabriella her favorite breakfast, if it was the same to this day, of course. He would’ve cooked for her and then woken her up at an appropriate time, las mañanitas [the birthday song, Mexico’s version] playing thanks to Lyla.

You imagine her waking up, the sleepiness wearing off her face as she realizes it’s her birthday. Perhaps Miguel met her at her bed, giving her a tight bear hug, wondering how it’s possible that his daughter has turned a year older, wondering where time is going, hoping that she doesn’t grow up too soon.

He may have pushed his thoughts away, trying to avoid the bittersweet feelings and focusing on making sure that Gabby’s birthday is perfect, so he’d tell her to come to the kitchen only to surprise her with favorite breakfast, hinting at a special day ahead with the birthday party scheduled for the afternoon. And oh, you know he would’ve left HQ early. Nothing, no mission or anomaly, would’ve prevented him from making it to his daughter’s party.

You sigh softly at the thoughts, the wishes for Miguel and Gabby. How you wish they could’ve had today.

Maybe in another universe, still undiscovered by the Spider Society, a Miguel had the privilege of doing that with another version of Gabby today.

“One… Two…” Miguel counts softly, thinking of what could’ve been today - of all the ways he would’ve made sure today was perfect for his daughter. If only they could’ve had today. If only they could’ve had a full lifetime.

“Three,” you both whisper before leaning forward and blowing the candles.

You both watch as the small trails of smoke rise above the cake, leaning back once more.

“Feliz Cumpleaños, mija [Happy Birthday, my daughter],” Miguel whispers tenderly. “I hope wherever you are… That you’re celebrating with Miguel and your uncle Gabriel. Maybe with your grandmother Conchata, too, if she’s available. Te quiero, y te sigo extrañando. Como siempre [I love you, and I keep missing you. Like always].”

“Happy Birthday, Gabby…” you say gently after gulping a small knot in your throat due to Miguel’s words. “I hope you’re having a lovely day with Gabriel and your other dad. I hope there’s lots of pan dulce [Mexican sweet bread], especially pink conchas [seashell shaped pan dulce], and your favorite Mexican candy.”

Miguel chuckles, ducking his head to wipe the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Pink conchas and Mexican candy. That would make her day,” he says straightening up, smiling despite the tears. He dries them again, sighing. He turns to look at you, filled with ternura [tenderness]. “Thank you for your sweet words, for agreeing to blow the candles with me, for the cake…” He pauses. “Thank you for everything. I hope you know how much it means to me, how much I appreciate it - thank you, dulzura,” he whispers gently, sincerely.

You smile at him, nodding. “Always, Miguel,” you whisper.

He smiles softly before it fades, his expression turning to an apologetic one. “The last few days…”

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply.

“No, I do,” he states firmly, shifting closer. He turns his body to face you fully, his legs touching your leg closest to him. “I… want to say I’m sorry. I haven’t been… It’s been a few hard days knowing her birthday was coming up, and I… It still hurts,” he says. “It still hurts and instead of talking about it with you, I just - partially shut down, like I used to before… You,” Miguel confesses. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable the last few days, making it seem like I didn’t want to be around you. I wanted to but I didn’t want to burden you with all of this.” He sighs. “I didn’t want to cast my rain on you.”

“Cast your rain on me?” you question, tilting your head to the side. “You know that’s… what friends are for.” You give him a reassuring smile. “I understand though… About it hurting and shutting down. It’s okay,” you reassure Miguel. “And you don’t need to apologize. I was worried but… I understand.”

“I do need to apologize,” Miguel insists. “If it was you, I would’ve…” Miguel trails off, scratching his neck. “I would’ve felt that you were pushing me away without a reason. I never want to make you feel like that,” he shares unable to look you in the eyes, so he focuses on the cake again while he speaks. He reads Gabby’s name on it before turning back to you. “I’m sorry, dulzura. I’m still learning.”

“It’s alright, Miguel,” you tell him again. “Should we… cut the cake?”

“You refuse to accept my apology,” he says, brows furrowed.

“Is that necessary?”

“It was a jerk move.”

“I don’t see it that way, but if it makes you feel better, apology accepted,” you reply, flashing him a small smile. “I appreciate your apology, and your willingness to share what’s been going on.”

Miguel nods at that, relieved that you’ve accepted his apology for the way he’s been acting recently.

You nod back, still smiling.“Cake time?”

“Cake time,” Miguel answers with a small smile.

You both turn your attention to the cake again just in time to see two candles sparkling and then flickering back to full life for a few seconds before they go out again, on their own.

With knitted eyebrows, you turn to look at each other, equally surprised by the short moment before turning your attention back to the cake.

As you remain sitting, watching the cake, the mood changes to a significantly lighter one, as if something physically tugged a heavy cloak from your shoulders to relieve them.

For a few seconds, neither of you say anything, basking in the new and light atmosphere that descends on the two of you like falling leaves in autumn.

“I’ll get the knife and plates,” you say breaking the silence after a few seconds.

“I’ll get us drinks and utensils,” Miguel replies before you both gather everything on the counter and prepare to cut the cake.

You hand him the knife so he can do the honors but at the last second he pulls back. “Wait,” he says. “Before I cut it - Lyla?”

“Yes, jefe [boss]?” Lyla says appearing in front of you.

“Can you… Can you take a photo of it?” Miguel asks her.

With a little grin, Lyla nods. “I got you covered. I’ve already taken a few…” she admits. “But I’ll take one more.” With that, she takes one more photo, which she displays for you to see. “What do we think? You outdid yourself, D, by the way.”

“D?” Miguel and you say at the same time.

Lyla turns and smirks. “Well, Miguel gave you ‘Dulzura,' so I figured I could call you D.”

“Oh,” you say, not sure if you’re up for that.

“I don’t think that’s…” Miguel trails off, not liking it himself, but at least Lyla isn’t trying to call you dulzura either. For some reason the idea of someone else calling you that, even if it’s his own AI assistant, rubs him the wrong way, but he doesn’t say that. “I think… Maybe consider something else.“

“Fine. I see neither of you are happy with it. You outdid yourself, Y/N. There. Better?” Lyla says rolling her eyes. “The longer you two spend time together, the more you team up against me. It’s so unfair.”

Miguel and you chuckle.

“And now they’re laughing at me. Humans,” Lyla mumbles under her breath. “Are you cutting the cake or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re cutting the cake,” Miguel says. “Thank you for taking the photo, L.”

“L?” Lyla repeats, offended.

“It’s for Lyla,” you say with a smile, making Miguel smirk softly since you’re following along with his teasing.

“You’re not calling me ‘L’ - I reject that,” Lyla replies, crossing her arms over chest.

“We’ll think of another nickname then,” Miguel replies, positioning the knife to cut the cake at last.

“Finally!” Lyla says. “Queremos pastel [we want cake]!”

“Queremos pastel [we want cake],” Miguel repeats, lowering the knife, imagining for a second that Gabby is the one cutting it, not him. He imagines himself taking photos from the back to capture the moment. “Queremos pastel, pastel, pastel [we want cake, cake, cake].”

You smile, listening to Miguel say ‘we want cake’ as he finally slices it. Lyla and you clap softly, which warms Miguel’s heart.

“Happy Birthday, Gabby!” Lyla says, smiling fondly at the cake. “I wish I could eat cake,” she adds frowning.

“You have no idea what you’re missing out on,” Miguel says with a smile as he cuts two slices, one for each of you.

“You don’t have to rub it in, Miguel,” she replies with a huff as she watches Miguel fix you a plate first, carefully placing it in front of you before fixing his own.

You wait until Miguel has his plate ready and then, you both try the cake at the same time.

You both sigh in content as the flavors melt in your mouth, pleased with it. Of course, there was no doubt in your minds that it was going to be good, especially not in Miguel’s mind. He loves your baking and cooking, but especially your baking since it satisfies his sweet tooth. So he had no doubt your baking was going to be excellent as always.

You both go for a second slice, which you take to the living room for more comfort after storing the remainder of the cake away. Miguel brings Gabby’s guitar along, placing it next to him on the floor. You’ve returned to the same spots from earlier, sitting side by side on the ground.

Lyla disappeared at some point while Miguel served the second slices, unusually quiet as she glanced between you before flickering away, so it’s just the two of you and light music for now as you eat your extra slices of cake.

Finishing with his, Miguel clears his throat and carefully dabs his mouth clean with a napkin. He rests his back on the couch, smiling gently as he watches you bring the fork to your mouth to eat.

“As always, your baking was incredible,” he compliments you. “Thank you for baking it. I believe Gabby would’ve loved it.”

“I’m happy and flattered to hear that,” you reply with a smile.

“She would be - probably giving you a lot of hugs right now.”

That makes you smile brighter, a warm feeling in your chest grows at the simple idea of Gabby loving her birthday cake so much that she’d give you a hug, or multiple.

“I would’ve accepted every single one of them,” you answer, still smiling.

“And returned them,” Miguel adds, knowing you so well. “You would’ve returned every single hug Gabby gave you and then add one or two more.”

“You know me too well,” you say chuckling before you take a sip from your glass. “I would’ve.”

Miguel picks up the guitar, a small smile on his face still. He brushes his fingers against the strings, thinking.

“The last few days were hard, knowing that her birthday was approaching. It’s hard, still,” he says, looking at it. “I didn’t expect for it to hurt less so soon, of course, but it always hurts to think she didn’t turn a year older, even if that would’ve been bittersweet.”

“In a way, I think I know what that would’ve felt like,” Miguel continues, his lips almost pouting. “I watched Gabriel grow older before my own eyes and it always made me feel bittersweet, to see my little brother grow older. I imagine I would’ve felt something similar with Gabby… but it’s not only that that hurts. It hurts that I can’t visit her somewhere. There’s nowhere for me to go. To visit her. I can go and visit my mom and Gabriel, but Gabriella… She’s gone. Really gone. There’s no resting place for her - because there’s no… her,” Miguel whispers, looking at the guitar in his hands.

To think he was the last one to hold her, his arms were the last thing she felt. “I was the last one to hold her. The last thing she felt… were my arms around her. That’s brought me some… comfort over time. She didn’t suffer in her last moments, not physically. I don’t know what I would’ve done if she had.” Miguel’s eyes shut tight, his head lowering. He would’ve hated himself so much more than he does already for not stopping what happened.

After several seconds of silence, he opens his eyes. “But as I was saying… there’s nowhere to see her. Nowhere to offer her flowers. I would visit her every day if there was. I would change her flowers every few days. I would’ve visited today and taken some things for her but there’s nowhere to go.”

You listen intently to Miguel, nodding as he talks. The very same thought has come to your mind before, about how Gabby doesn’t have a resting place, somewhere for Miguel to visit her. You remember thinking about it a while back, imagining how much harder it would be for someone like Miguel to heal from his loss when there’s no resting place for Gabby because her universe collapsed.

“It’s something I think about often, but I can’t do anything about it,” Miguel says playing a few strings.

You hum softly, staying quiet for a few moments and simply watching Miguel as his fingers move over the strings, not playing. “I can imagine, Miguel,” you reply gently after some seconds.

You look over to the wall, your gaze finding the photographs you helped Miguel hang not too long ago. It’s become a special spot for him in the penthouse, a detail that’s given the place a much warmer vibe along with the other changes Miguel has made.

Your eyes move to the console table attached to the same wall, decorated with a simply abstract figure. It’s a spot neither of you have thought about spicing up with Miguel trying to redecorate.

“I know you said there’s nowhere to go… But what if…” you trail off, the idea still forming in your head.

“What if…?” Miguel repeats, wondering what you’re thinking about. He’s both curious and excited to hear whatever is on your mind, something that might give him some comfort regarding the situation.

“What if you give her a place here?” you continue, nodding to the console table. “Her special place for you to visit her per say, close to you, here in your home.”

His eyes light up at the idea.

“Never mind, that’s probably… not a good idea,” you say, doubting yourself, but when you turn to look at Miguel, he’s shaking his head.

“I like it. I like it a lot. In fact… I love it,” he says softly with a little smile. “I spend a lot of time here at the living room, so it’d be nice to set it here. And,” he pauses, standing up and looking around. “This place receives a lot of natural light. She loved the sunshine. Sometimes I think she would’ve loved the living room especially for that reason, the sunshine coming through the windows while she colored on the coffee table,” Miguel continues, a hint of excitement in his voice, as his mind works on how he wants it to look - to honor his little girl, to have a place to visit her in a way as you said. He walks over to you and hands you the guitar. “Hold this, please, while I go get something. I’ll be right back.”

He exits the living room before you can say anything, heading towards the office on the first floor, so you hold the guitar with care knowing how special it is.

This is the first time you’ve held it, so you inspect it a little closer to look at the stickers Gabby put on it. There’s three flowers on it, a DNA strand, and a science symbol which doesn’t surprise you. Miguel has always stated how much Gabby loved science, how bright she was. You smile tenderly at it, allowing yourself to realize it was once held by her, a thought that makes you tear up a little. You think about how this guitar was once held by that little girl with the toothy smile who loved pink conchas, chocolate chip pancakes, arroz con leche [Mexican rice pudding], and Choco Milk. The little girl whose birthday is today, who loved science and candy so much her dad couldn’t say no to her, and who loved bees and the color lilac. The one that played guitar and fútbol [I don’t want to call it soccer], who sometimes fell asleep on the way home after a victorious game.

You turn the guitar over, reading the name on the back.

“Gabriella O’Hara,” you whisper, your fingertips barely touching it. “Gabby.” You sniffle quietly and wipe tears from your eyes, not wanting Miguel to see you crying but then, a tissue comes into your vision.

Startled, you look up and find Miguel, his own eyes teary due to seeing and hearing you cry. Despite his own sadness - his grief - he still finds it in himself to offer you a reassuring, little smile before he carefully dries your tears with the tissue.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” Miguel whispers back. “Seeing how much you care about Gabby, despite not having the opportunity to meet her, is so touching to me. You have no idea.” He clears his throat and steps back once he’s done. “It means so much to me that you care about her.”

You sniffle again, trying to recover. “I do. If I could do something to bring her back…”

Miguel’s face softens even more.

“I’d give my life so she was here with you,” you say, looking down at the guitar. “So you’d be happy.”

“I would still be hurting,” Miguel says quietly, which makes you look up, frowning.

“Why?” you ask softly, so honestly it leaves Miguel in disbelief for a few seconds.

“Why? You ask why?” he says, his brows raising. “I’d be missing and grieving you, dulzura. That’s why.” He sits near you with a sigh. “So… don’t ever sacrifice yourself,” Miguel says quietly, firmly. “Please.” Just the idea of something happening to you… It leaves more than a bitter taste in Miguel’s mouth. He doesn’t know what he’d do if you were hurt, if something else happened. He doesn’t want to think about it.

You nod slowly, his words sinking in. Without saying it directly, Miguel has stated that he cares about you. It brings a little smile to your face as you hand him the guitar, thinking he’d appreciate holding it again. Your fingers brush his as the guitar is exchanged but neither of you say anything about it.

“But I’m touched you care so much about Gabby - about me - that you’d try to bring her back if there was a way, without you giving your life.” Miguel adds. “To make me not happy, but happi-er because despite everything… I am happy these days, you know.” He turns to look at you, nudging his chin at you.

You smile, guessing he’s talking about you, so you nudge your chin back at him because you’re happier these days thanks to him, too.

He flashes you a small grin, for a second having the urge to gently take your chin between his thumb and finger, an urge that disperses quickly when you change the topic for his and your sake.

“You went to get something. What was it?” you ask.

“Right,” Miguel says, remembering. He reaches from his other side and retrieves a picture frame and a candle. “I want to add another photo of Gabby, a larger one to place on the console table. The candle… I want to light one for her. In Mexico, people sometimes have small altars for their loved ones at home throughout the year, you reminded me of that when you mentioned the console table. Tomorrow, I’ll go and buy her flowers from the flower market. I already have a vase that I think will be perfect. It used to be in my mom’s apartment when she lived in the building.”

“That sounds lovely,” you reply with a smile. “It’s going to look so beautiful. What picture are you thinking of using for the altar?”

Miguel sighs. “Well… All the pictures I have are already on the wall.”

You both turn your gazes to the photographs, your eyes finding Gabby’s few remaining photos.

“So, it’ll have to be one of them,” Miguel continues, to this day still upset that there’s not more photos of Gabby.

You nod, wishing there were more photos and videos of Gabby at least.

Seeing a sudden pop of white to your side, you turn and find Lyla. She gives you a look, as if asking you to wish her good luck before she floats farther away so Miguel can see her, too. The sight of Lyla and her expression, at this moment, has your heart racing suddenly.

“Hey… Miguel?” Lyla starts too quietly, too serious.

“Lyla,” Miguel replies his face changing to confusion, then to one of seriousness as his ears identify the different tone in her voice.

“I have something to tell you… It’s a good thing,” she continues looking at him and then at you.

“What is it?” Miguel asks.

“So… A year ago when you were injured in another universe, you know with the Goblin, the system shut down. It was rebooted by Margo and all was great, but some files were temporarily lost due to the sudden shut down. Others became corrupted. I started working on retrieving those files, slowly but surely. There was no rush as those files weren’t top priority, you know, essential to us for our day to day work at HQ. To be honest, I couldn’t even tell you what these files were, since they had no official name when I found them,” Lyla explains.

“Files… What are you getting at?” Miguel asks.

“I’ve retrieved them, uncovered what they were. Including the corrupted files. On my little free time, I’ve been restoring the files and well… It turns out that I had forgotten about some of these files due to previous system reboots. Since they were somehow omitted from my system due to previous shut downs, I didn’t even know they existed anymore, especially being lost and corrupted files within the system.”

“What are they? Why is it important to tell us this now?” Miguel asks, holding on to the guitar. His heart begins to race a little, even though he tells himself to not be stupid - to not have hope there’s more.

“Both the lost and corrupted files have turned out to be…” Lyla trails off, looking between Miguel and you. “Photos and videos of Gabby and you. New ones, not the ones you have already.”

Miguel inhales sharply, his heart racing as Lyla’s words sink in. “It’s not possible,” he says without thinking.

“It is, Miguel,” she replies offering a genuine look. “And I swear I didn’t hide them this time. They were lost and even I had no idea they were just sitting there in the system. I came across the folder sometime over the summer after you were injured and decided to work on them. It wasn’t until October or so that one of the files turned out to be a photo of her. I wanted to tell you right away, but then, I figured that since I didn’t even know about this one photo being lost, maybe a few more files would turn out to be photos of her, too. I was hoping to have it done by Father’s Day, but well, things happen at HQ…” Lyla says apologetically. “I finished today. My work proved to be successful because almost every file was of Gabby. I finished recovering the last one today and I’m happy to tell you that there’s over twenty photos on top of some videos. Do you wish to see them?”

“Yes,” Miguel breathes out. “Yes. Please show them to me.” He turns to look at you, his eyes filled with so many emotions - surprise, disbelief, happiness, and excitement.

“I’ll go - I’m going to wait upstairs,” you say, already making the move to stand up so Miguel will have privacy to look at the photos.

“You don’t have to,” Miguel says, suddenly placing a hand on your shoulder for a few seconds, making you go still at the unexpected touch. “Stay, please.”

You stare at each other as Miguel slowly retrieves his hand. He didn’t plan nor anticipated it. It was a genuine reaction, to keep you here, with him.

“Will you?” he asks.

Nodding, you settle back down. “Yes. If you want to, I will.”

“Thank you,” he replies with a small nod. He turns to Lyla, readjusting his position. “Lyla…”

“Yes, boss?” she replies, knowing.

“Go ahead,” Miguel states, his heart racing. His fingers fiddle with the guitar’s strings, feeling nervous. As Lyla prepares, the idea sinks further. There’s more photos and videos of Gabby. All this time, there’s been more memories sitting in the system, lost but finally recovered.

“Here are the photos,” Lyla says gently as she makes a holographic screen accessible. She turns to you, giving you a small smile and a subtle thumbs up. You suppose she was thinking back to the time when she hid photos of Gabby and his wife, and how Miguel reacted then by shutting her down, but his reaction today is far different. The Miguel from then, you suspect, had done little healing. You turn to the screen after acknowledging her with a nod and a small smile, giving your full attention to Gabby.

Three seconds later, there she is. Beside you, Miguel sighs the way a parent does when looking at old photographs of their children, with nostalgia.

“Gabby,” he whispers, his gaze soft as he takes in the photo of her sitting on a living room floor, coloring books and pencils scattered over a coffee table. Her face is one of concentration as she colors, dressed in jeans and a pink shirt with her hair down.

Photo after photo, Miguel and you observe each one, drinking in the details the way you drink café de olla [coffee]. Slowly, with delicacy and love. While Miguel is thrown right back into his memories, you get more glimpses of his life with her, of that short time. You finally see a little bit more of that universe, leaving an incredible pain in you knowing these photographs and Gabby’s guitar, is basically the only evidence left that that universe once existed to begin with.

Despite that feeling, you smile as the photos progress, seeing Miguel with such a happy smile with his daughter. Your heart beats with tenderness seeing how happy they looked, sharing father and daughter moments, such as them playing dolls on her bedroom floor, a flower sticker on Miguel’s hair.

“I didn’t notice it until I was going to shower,” Miguel says with an amused smile. “She noticed it for sure but she didn’t tell me.”

You laugh softly. “She was probably wondering how long it’ll take before you realized.”

“Most likely,” Miguel agrees, shaking his head in amusement before you both turn back to look at the next photo.

Everything is fine and lighthearted inside you as more photos are displayed but your throat suddenly feels impossibly restricted when the photo changes to one of a sleeping Miguel and Gabby on her bed. An open book, abandoned, can be seen on the side. It’s clearly night time, a single lit lamp in what used to be the little girl’s bedroom while Gabby and Miguel sleep, the latter having fallen asleep at some point while reading to his daughter. Your vision becomes blurry when you spot their same sleepy faces, their mouths open just slightly, identically like father and daughter. Silently, the tears roll down your face without warning.

You don’t dare turn to look at Miguel, or even make a subtle move to wipe your tears away because you don’t wish for him to see you crying. You don’t want your tears to make him tear up, too. Inhaling gently, you attempt to swallow the painful knot in your throat and rein in your emotions, but your eyes remain fixed on the photo, on sleeping Miguel and Gabby - no worries in their minds as they peacefully sleep.

For Gabby, she’s in the comfort of her father’s arms - safe and sound, protected. For Miguel, you imagine in those moments that the multiverse didn’t exist. It was a far away concept in those moments, so far he slipped into his sleep with ease and without a fight - a high contrast to what awaited him in the future. Sleepless and long nights in his dark and empty lab due to nightmares, alone with the exception of Lyla at times. The children’s books he read to Gabby replaced with data reports pertaining to the multiverse once more by a cruel and unexpected twist of misfortune, something Miguel has been no stranger to.

Still staring at the photo, you once again wonder how different Miguel’s life would have been had Gabby’s universe not collapsed. You wonder if he’d still live there in that universe, or whether he would’ve told Gabby and his wife about his universe, have them move to Nueva York, here to his penthouse.

You wonder, if perhaps, Miguel and his wife would’ve divorced and it would’ve been Gabby and Miguel alone then.

You wonder if her room would’ve been Gabriel’s, or if Miguel would’ve done changes to the penthouse, like making the upstairs office an extra bedroom. Perhaps, on this coffee table in front of you, Gabby’s coloring books or hair ties, or something that belonged to her, could be found.

“I used to read to her every night,” Miguel says, bringing his knees close to him, resting his arms on them. “I’m so glad there’s a memory of it. That I can see her sleepy face again physically, not just in my head.” He wipes his eye using the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He sniffles quietly before he reaches with his hand, zooming in on her specifically. He traces his daughter’s face as if he were actually tracing it physically, with such tenderness and so much love. “Su carita [her little face],” he whispers. “I’d forget everything about the Spider Society at the sight of that little face. I wasn’t Spider-Man. I was just ‘papá’ or ‘daddy’ - and my biggest worry was a scraped knee during practices [papa].”

He turns to face you slowly, finally realizing you’ve been so quiet, so still. His gaze softens when you turn away as an attempt to keep him from seeing your face, the tears staining your cheeks.

“Dulzura?”

“Yeah?” you reply, clearing your throat, trying to make it seem like you’re fine.

“You don’t have to hide your tears,” Miguel says gently. “Not from me.”

With that, you turn to face him. You offer him a small smile. “I’m sorry… This photo…” you trail off, looking away to dry your damp cheeks. “You just - Your sleeping faces are the same,” you continue, chuckling softly instead of crying, even though your eyes are still tearing up. “Even the way your mouths are open just slightly.” You sniffle. “It’s so… sweet, Miguel.”

You shakily huff, drying your face with the back of your hand. You wish you could blame your emotions on something else, like your period, but it’s not even time for that yet. Your emotions are running uncontrollably purely because of Miguel and his daughter. It’s due to the tenderness of this photo and every single moment they were able to share, but knowing it wasn’t, isn’t, and never will be enough for Miguel or Gabby.

And God, you wish on everything that Gabby was here right now. You wish there was a way that time could go back, that you had the answers to the real cause for the collapse of universes. And then, you’d go back and prevent it from happening, along with every other universe that’s been lost.

“You think so?” Miguel asks, his eyes twinkling with delight hearing you say that Gabby and he share the same sleeping faces.

“Absolutely,” you reply. “It’s clear as day.”

Miguel sighs, dropping his arm. He wraps his arms around his legs and stares at the photo some more. “Thank you for saying that,” he whispers. “That makes me feel… happy. Happier.”

“Always,” you whisper back, able to look at the photo again. “This one… It would be sweet to have in your room.”

Miguel hums. “My nightstand.”

“Close to you,” you reply, nodding.

You fall into a comfortable silence, despite the emotions, and continue to observe the photo for a few more minutes before Miguel asks Lyla to display the rest. Each one is as sweet and tender as the last one, but thankfully you don’t cry anymore, or at least not as much.

“There are a few videos,” Lyla says turning to look at Miguel, talking for the first time since she shared the fact that these files exist. She’s been silently watching the two of you, glad that Miguel has you by his side while he goes through the photos - relieved that he isn’t alone today, and tomorrow, and the date afterwards. He has someone. You. “Do you wish to watch them?”

“Yes, please,” Miguel answers turning to look at Lyla before his eyes turn back to the screen.

As time goes on, Miguel and you watch the videos, all of which are of just him and Gabby. And thankfully, they’re all long videos. You watch Gabriella play fútbol in the backyard with Miguel. There’s the one Christmas they spent together, with Gabby excitedly showing Miguel new toys.

“Christmas,” Miguel says softly. “She was so excited. I did the Santa’s snow boots footprints, she was squealing with happiness when she woke up and saw them,” he shares.

You watch the video, thinking. Miguel was that kind of father, and it makes so much sense.

At last, Lyla turns to face the two of you. “This is the last one,” Lyla says softly as the screen changes before it starts.

Miguel and you both watch as the video clip begins playing, starting with Gabby on display holding her guitar and playing it. Miguel sits on a chair watching with an expression that leaves no room for question how proud he felt in that moment. Like in every video and photo, Miguel’s eyes have a special spark, one you recognize in Peter B. and MJ, Jess and her husband, and Mr. and Mrs. Morales. It’s the spark a loving, caring parent has in their eyes when looking at or talking about their child. Miguel had it around Gabby, and now it’s only visible when he talks about her, or when he looks at her photos.

A warm, gentle, and beautiful smile grazes his face as he watches and listens to Gabby expertly play the guitar at such age, a look of concentration on her sweet face. She plays a melody you don’t recognize but one she seems to know by heart, no mistakes made. She ends her playing gently, the sound pleasant to the ears before she eagerly and expectantly looks at her father, a smile that reminds you of Miguel’s, too, on her face.

“That was amazing, mija [my daughter]!” Miguel says suddenly with such energy you swear you’ve never seen in him before. “You get better and better the more you practice, eh? My little musician!”

You smile, seeing Gabby’s smile widen before she runs to her father, throwing her arms around his neck. The sight of Miguel instantly wrapping his arms around his daughter makes your heart weak. There has never been any doubt in your mind that Miguel loved, still loves, Gabby, but this interaction hits you deeply. You see the way his eyes close in content, his smile unfaltering as he hugs his daughter tightly. He’s so proud of her. He’s so loving, tender, sweet.

There’s also no doubt in your mind. Being a father suits him so much even if he once thought he wasn’t meant to. Quite the contrary, Miguel was meant to be a father.

“Now it’s your turn, daddy! You play and sing!” Gabby says excitedly, pulling back to offer Miguel the guitar.

Miguel shakes his head gently. “I think you should keep playing, mija [my daughter].”

“Please? Pretty please, daddy?” Gabby insists, puppy eyes on full display. “Sing my favorite song, please.”

And just like Miguel has told you before, he was never able to say no to Gabby when it came to healthy, harmless requests like these. He accepts the guitar.

“Just one song, and then you play again. ¿Entiendes, chiquilla [do you understand, little girl]?”

“Okay, okay! Ya se [I know], but please! I like to hear you sing, daddy,” Gabby says taking a seat in front of Miguel on the floor, watching him like he’s the center of her universe.

“Okay, okay. Ay vamos [we’re going, starting]…” Miguel says with a little sigh. “How does it start?”

“Dad!” Gabby whines with a little huff. “You know how it starts!”

“I forgot. What are the first notes, again?” Miguel asks with a sweet, playful smile that stays on his face as Gabby tells him. “Ah, okay. So… Something like this,” he says playing a few notes that earns him eager nods from Gabby. “Okay, I think I got it, mija [my daughter].” He begins to play the guitar again, the same notes Gabby was playing earlier but continuing on.

And for the first time since you’ve known Miguel, you hear him truly sing.

“Luna gardenia de plata que en mi serenata, te vuelves canción. Tú que me viste cantando, me ves hoy llorando, mi desilusión. Calles bañadas de luna que fueron la cuna de mi juventud. Vengo a cantarle a mi amada, la luna plateada de mi Xelajú…” Miguel sings with ease, his brows furrowing slightly, gazing at his daughter who smiles tenderly at her father. “En mis noches de pena, por una morena de dulce mirar,” Miguel continues singing, smiling at Gabby, nodding at her. He earns himself a sweet, happy, and toothy smile along with an applause from Gabby’s hands, and it’s so heartwarming, so sweet Miguel can’t help himself from stopping midway when he sees Gabby rise and head straight for him.

He welcomes her in his arms, laughing softly as he places the guitar down to fully embrace her like it’s the last time he’ll ever be able to. The thought breaks you. He never imagined he’d lose her - not while embracing her like that nor when he read bedtime stories to her.

“Again, daddy! This time all the song, please,” Gabby says hugging Miguel, her father.

“Okay, okay, mija [my daughter], but first we need to have dinner. C’mon, the caldo [broth] should be ready now,” Miguel says carrying her to what you assume is the kitchen. “Le agregue muchas papitas pa’ que comas. Tienes que comer pa’ que estés fuerte y sana. ¿Recuerdas? [I added a lot of potatoes so you’ll eat. You must eat so you’ll be strong and healthy. Remember?]”

“¡Y pollito [and chicken]!” Gabby says making Miguel chuckle.

“Si y mucho pollito. También zanahorias [yes and chicken. Carrots, too].”

“Eugh, no carrots, please.”

The last thing heard is Miguel’s laughter as they both disappear into the kitchen, the screen returning to the all familiar marigold color used for all screens in the Spider Society.

You chuckle softly as you remember something. “So she wasn’t fond of carrots either.”

Turning to look at you, Miguel frowns softly yet he’s amused. He remembers that evening so vividly now, how it felt to carry his daughter to the kitchen so they could check on the food. “Either?”

“Remember when you were injured last year?” you ask, which instantly reminds Miguel.

“Dios [God], that carrot was disgusting,” he says frowning deeply. “I don’t know how we didn’t throw up right there.”

Covering your mouth, you laugh, recalling the face he made that day when he tried it. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re laughing,” Miguel says raising an eyebrow, feigning disappointment and offense. “Can’t believe you made me try it.”

“I didn’t think it was actually bad,” you reply. “In my defense, I thought since it’s this dimension, and all the great resources at HQ, that the infirmary food would be top notch.”

“Mala [Meanie, feminine version in Spanish],” Miguel replies, amusement dancing in his eyes. “At least you tried it, too. So we’re even.”

“Never again.” You chuckle again. “If I ever end up there, please spare me from the carrots.”

Miguel’s amusement falters a bit. “I hope you’re never there. Not even for a minor cut, but I promise I’ll spare you from the horrible food,” he says earnestly, leaving no doubt in your mind that you’ll never taste that food. Again. “I swear.”

“Thank you,” you reply softly with a smile.

“Always. I’ll protect your food palate,” he says, amused yet again.

You both smile at each other, staying quiet for a few seconds before you speak again. “That was… Very beautiful, Miguel,” you start quietly. “Your voice. You singing to Gabby her favorite song. You made her happy, so happy.”

He nods, his smile shifting to a much tender one. “I sang it to her every time she wanted me to. It was a pure request, an easy way to make her happy. I always wanted her to be so,” Miguel shares. “And if I could make her happy in such an easy way, I would. It was also bonding for us. I never wanted to make her feel like I didn’t want to spend time with her, like she was being rejected. I wanted her to feel loved,” he adds softly. “For her to know she was deeply loved and cared for. That she didn’t need to hide anything. I wanted her to have what I…” Miguel pauses, swallowing. “What I didn’t have at her age. That unconditional love, protection, and tenderness from a parent. Constant. Not in pauses, making her wonder if she had done something wrong.”

Nodding, you sigh softly. You know about Miguel’s childhood; about the situation with his mother Conchata and his stepfather, on top of the situation with his biological father. You try not to think about it often because each time you do, anger and sadness flares up inside you for him. You hate that Miguel experienced such rejection and negligence in his early life, how it has affected him throughout the years.

You’re glad, at least, that by the end of Conchata’s life, Miguel had somewhat of a stable relationship with her, something you’ve wondered about sometimes at random times. You wonder, if time had allowed, whether Miguel and her could’ve worked on their relationship, if by now they’d have a better one, but of course, it’s fruitless to think of such moments. Conchata has been gone for several years.

Another thing you wonder is if she saw the way Miguel stepped up to the role of father and how wonderful, tender, sweet, and loving he was to Gabby from wherever she is. You wonder if she felt shame, knowing her son tried to be everything she hardly was for Gabby.

“It’s evident you did just that,” you say at last, concentrating on the now. “She was so happy, Miguel. Her laughter, her smiles - all signs of a happy, safe, and loved child.”

Miguel hums, his gaze softening at your words. “Thank you,” he whispers. “I tried my best to be a good father.” He turns his gaze towards the guitar, the lovely and bittersweet song stuck in his head. He picks it up and holds it, remembering how many times he played the song for her. His fingers glide over the stickers, thinking how it’s still her birthday.

There’s a chance her favorite song would’ve changed by now. Maybe she wouldn’t be interested in playing the guitar anymore but rather another instrument. There’s a lot of things that could’ve changed by now, truly. Maybe Gabby would’ve stopped playing fútbol. Maybe she would’ve stopped loving science.

He’ll never know now.

But maybe there’s a chance, that despite the years… “Luna de Xelajú” would still hold a special place in her tender heart. Maybe she’d appreciate her father remembering the times she asked him to play it for her, to sing her the song while gazing at her, letting her know that she was his morena de dulce mirar [his brunette, or of dark complexion, girl with a sweet gaze]. Just maybe, she’d let her old man play and sing it for her on her birthday even if she no longer begged him to sing it by wrapping her short arms around his neck, giggling and calling him daddy.

Just maybe.

Miguel clears his throat and positions his fingers. How does it start?

“You know how it starts!”

He hears Gabby’s voice in his head, even the little huff. Right. Like this. His fingers move, playing the notes for the first time since he lost his daughter. For a moment, he thinks he messed up, but no, his memory doesn’t betray him, and so his fingers move, as if they had a mind of their own.

You watch as he begins to play, familiar to your ears now thanks to the video. Your eyes remain on him, not missing even a second of this. For a moment, you wonder if you’re imagining it, but no, Miguel really is playing the guitar and playing Gabby’s song, at least the beginning of it.

You suddenly realize what he’s trying to do, just as Lyla does, too because a second later, Lyla displays a photo of Gabby, one of the new ones, for Miguel.

Miguel is going to play and sing the song for her, on her birthday.

Holding your breath, you watch Miguel lift his gaze to the screen, still playing the guitar before he begins.

“Luna gardenia de plata, que en mi serenata te vuelves canción. Tú que me viste cantando, me ves hoy llorando mi desilusión,” Miguel sings softly, staring at his daughter’s photo, his expression gentle yet with a trace of mourning and grief. “Luna de Xelajú, que supiste alumbrar, en mis noches de pena por una morena de dulce mirar,” he continues, his gaze softening and his mouth pouting.

You remain still, almost as still as a statue itself. You have heard Miguel sing before when he does so under his breath, sometimes unaware of it, but nothing compare to this. If his voice sounds beautiful in the video, it sounds angelic live. His voice travels straight to your heart.

Still playing, Miguel’s eyes fill with some tears. After so long, he’s playing and singing her song. For so long, he’s tried to not think of it, finding it to be too much for him, too soon for his grieving heart, but his very heart seems to have found today appropriate for it.

Maybe it’s another sign of him healing, Miguel doesn’t know, but he has no regrets playing it now. It feels right, so he continues, hoping that wherever Gabby is, she’s listening to him sing it at last, just for her.

“En mi vida no habrá, más cariño que tú, mi amor. Porque no eres ingrata, mi Luna de plata, luna de Xelajú. Luna que me alumbró, en mis noches de amor… [in my life there won’t be more love than you, my love. Because you’re not ungrateful, my moon of silver, moon of Xelajú. Moon that lightened me up, in my nights of love]” Miguel sings, his fingers slowing down as he pauses for a few seconds. “Hoy consuelas la pena… Por una morena… que me… Abandonó [today you console the sorrow… for a brunette, or girl of dark complexion… that… abandoned me],” he sings the end in a whisper, a single tear rolling down his face as his fingers play the last notes, finishing the song.

He lowers the guitar to his lap slowly, still gazing at Gabby’s photo. He doesn’t bother to wipe away the tear that slowly trails down his face. Instead, he lets it run its course until it sinks into his skin. Miguel inhales heavily and sighs. Something in him, so deep, settling in. It’s a certain kind of peace.

At last, several seconds later, you sigh as well. You didn’t realize you held your breath throughout the entirety of the song, but you did. You didn’t want to miss a single moment of Miguel singing to Gabby; from hearing his gentle, soothing voice.

“That was beautiful,” you whisper quietly, looking at Gabby’s photo.

Miguel smiles slowly. “Thank you,” he whispers back. “I haven’t played, sang, nor heard it since then. The last time was before I lost her. Even the simple thought of it, the melody in my head - was too much for me,” Miguel admits, gathering his thoughts. “If she was alive, I know she’d be changing. The things she once liked, maybe she wouldn’t be much into anymore. Maybe this song wouldn’t be her favorite anymore. There’s a chance… I know, but even then, before I decided to play it, I thought maybe, just maybe, from wherever she’s at, keeping me safe, she might enjoy me playing her once favorite song from down here on Earth… I hope she heard it.”

You smile softly, still staring at the photo and think about Miguel’s words. Maybe Gabby’s music taste would’ve changed by now. Perhaps “Luna de Xelajú” would no longer be her favorite song, and maybe it’s wishful thinking, but a part of you believes that Gabby would’ve loved the beautiful gesture from her dad regardless. And for some reason, you also can’t help but think that maybe she did hear it tonight.

The two flickering birthday candles from earlier come back to mind. That was rather strange. You wonder silently. Maybe the two most important people in Miguel’s life, visited him tonight in their own way.

“I have a feeling she did,” you reply softly.

Miguel turns to face you, shifting his body slightly. “You may think I’m a little bit crazy,” he starts, making you tilt your head towards him with a raised eyebrow, letting him know you don’t. He smiles a bit. “The flickering candles.”

You nod. “I was just thinking about that. Two candles,” you reply.

“Two candles,” Miguel repeats. “Gabby. Gabriel.” He smiles a bit at that. “You don’t think I’m… overthinking it? Maybe with my messed up sleep schedule, I’m just… Not making sense.”

“You’re allowed to believe that,” you state gently. “I’m never going to judge you. I had my fair share of moments in which I felt like Peter and my parents were - leaving me little signs. I also thought about them, you know.” You shift slightly to face him better. “About Gabby and Gabriel.”

Miguel smiles, his head dipping to face the floor. It’s reassuring. He straightens up to look at you again.

“I know I already said it earlier, but, I want to say I’m sorry again. For the way I behaved these last few days.”

You prepare yourself to reply but Miguel lifts his finger, stopping you.

“I don’t want to… Push you away nor make you feel like I’m trying to when I’m not. I have,” Miguel pauses, thinking about that mutual agreement between you some weeks ago.

“We do. We have each other,” Miguel said, before adding, “Always.”

“Always,” you replied.

He also thinks about how you’ve only been a part of his life for a few years. Two, to be exact. It’s a realization that for some reason feels so wrong to him. He wishes you could’ve been in his life sooner, but there’s no time machine to do that, or Miguel would’ve already used it to bring back Gabby and Gabriel. There’s no changing the past, unfortunately, but he has control over some aspects of the future, and he’s already made up his mind. You may have entered his life only two years ago, but he’ll try his absolute best to make sure you stick for the rest of his - until his last breath.

“I don’t want to ever…” he tries and clears his throat. “I don’t want to - I’d like for you - stick around.” He sighs and runs a quick hand through his hair. “I’m not trying to push you - away. Ever.”

You smile at that. “To be honest, it’s going to take a lot for you to push me away. I’m afraid… You’re stuck with me,” you say.

He laughs softly, the sound making your heart swell. “Like that’s a bad thing,” Miguel answers.

“Well… Just saying, so you don’t complain later on.”

“I could never,” Miguel replies, smiling softly.

“Lyla, I hope you recorded that,” you reply, earning yourself a chuckle from Miguel, one that makes you chuckle, too before you both settle into a comfortable silence.

The holographic screen is still available, the same photo of Gabby displayed with one of the sweetest smiles you’ve ever seen.

It’s several minutes later when Miguel breaks the silence. “Tomorrow I’m printing all the photos.” And then remembering, he adds. “Thank you, Lyla. For recovering everything. I… I had no idea there were more photos and videos. Thank you.”

“You got it, Miguel,” Lyla says, looking between him and you, happy that she was able to restore everything. “I’m heading off now. I have some things to work on. Good night.”

“Night,” Miguel replies.

“Good night,” you answer before she disappears.

“Are you tired?” Miguel asks gently.

“Not a lot,” you reply, even though last night you only slept for a few hours. You know Miguel slept even less. “You?”

He shakes his head slightly. “No. Not yet.” He picks up the guitar and plays a few strings, ones you don't recognize.

You remain by his side, letting time go by in each other’s company. Despite the emotions, the mood is lighthearted. Miguel is no longer as quiet and he even offers a few more smiles as the hours go by, smiles that actually reach his eyes.

As time slips by, you notice Miguel grow sleepier and sleepier, which is not surprising. At some point you find him nodding off, so you suggest that he goes to bed but he declines, stating he’s not sleepy yet.

Except, he is and he ends up falling asleep sitting next to you. In a matter of minutes, you grab a pillow from upstairs and your blanket before you reach him. You talk to him softly, waking him enough to talk to him.

“Lay down,” you say, watching the way he looks at you sleepily.

“Mm - no,” he replies, sleepily.

“You’ve fallen asleep. Lay down,” you try again. “Please?”

He sighs, yawning. “I wasn’t sleepy.”

You hold back from chuckling. “I totally believe you. Now, lay down. Please.”

He sighs again, all sleepy and stubborn, but finally lays down.

“Sleep,” you whisper firmly. “Rest, Migs.”

“Are you going upstairs?” he whispers sleepily, his eyes fluttering as he gazes at you, with a hint of a pout.

You smile tenderly at him, the sight of his sleepy features and voice warming your heart.

“I'm staying here,” you reply as you cover him with your blanket, wondering if the reason why he’s asking is because he'll like for you to stay.

“Mm,” he hums sleepily, satisfied with your answer. “Thank you.” He sighs softly, relaxing and settling.

“Lift your head, Miguel.”

“Mhm.” Miguel does so slightly, more asleep than awake now.

You fix the pillow behind his head, your fingers accidentally brushing the small curls on the nape of his neck including the sensitive skin there, eliciting a gentle hum from Miguel, one of contentment, of satisfaction.

You freeze for a second, the sound surprising you. After a second or two, you smile and finish fixing it, pulling the blanket higher up.

“Sleep, Migs,” you whisper tenderly.

“Mhm, dulzura,” Miguel mumbles, dozing off at last.

You take a seat next to him. The holographic screen is still available, displaying the same photo from earlier.

You get comfortable and stare at the photo, thinking about all the new ones, about the videos. You got more glimpses of Miguel's life with his daughter. More glimpses of him being a father.

Turning your attention back to Miguel and taking in all his features, you think once more.

He was meant to be a dad.

You wonder if there's a chance of him opening his heart to someone one day. Of falling in love and having a child. Or, maybe two, or three. Maybe even four.

With thoughts of the possibility of Miguel building a family with someone, you fall asleep yourself.

It's many hours later when you wake up naturally, without the need of an alarm. To your relief, you find Miguel still sleeping peacefully by your side.

Standing up, you notice his sleeping face, once again remembering how similar it is to Gabby's. You hum to yourself, heart swelling with tenderness, before deciding to make coffee.

You go through yesterday's events silently as you prepare the pot and set up the mugs, opting for some simple ones today instead of grabbing more colorful ones, like the mug you gifted Miguel for Father’s Day due to the circumstances of Gabby’s birthday. You wait patiently, remaining quiet to avoid waking up Miguel and think to yourself. You can't believe that all this time there were more photos and videos of Gabby, lost but thankfully recovered and restored by Lyla.

“Good morning,” Miguel says entering the kitchen, his voice still laced with sleep.

“Good morning,” you reply, offering Miguel a smile. “Coffee is almost ready.”

He nods before running a hand through his hair, it being a little disheveled from his sleep. His movement slows down as he vaguely remembers your fingers brushing his hair and neck, a memory that makes his cheeks feel warmer. “I could use some, muchas gracias [thank you].”

“Always,” you reply, not noticing the gentle redness on his cheeks.

He leans on the counter, still waking up and trying to gather his thoughts. He looks over at the coffee and the mugs, remembering. He moves to where the mugs are found and finds the one. It’s the one he’s been using since you gifted it to him; his mug from Father’s Day with the bees. He retrieves it and moves towards you, placing it on the counter near the two you already have out.

“My favorite,” Miguel says looking at it, still so touched by your gifts, bringing a smile to your face.

So, you serve him coffee in that mug and watch him drink it, raising the mug you made with your own hands to his lips. It’s how you also notice the bracelet you gifted him with Gabby’s name on his wrist, another sight that makes you happy. It seems Miguel really liked the gifts.

“Do you want to come with me?” Miguel asks, lowering the mug. “I’m going to the flower market.”

“If it’s alright,” you say, remembering Miguel’s plans to buy flowers for Gabby to place on the altar. “I’d like to.”

Miguel nods. “I’d like for you to come.”

After drinking your mugs of coffee in peace, you both get ready and dress in civilians clothes. For the second time, you borrow the simple holographic suit Miguel allowed you to borrow months ago when your apartment building caught on fire and your suit was dirty and smelling of smoke.

You both slip out of the penthouse and swing through the city before most of the people of Nueva York are awake, before the city is truly buzzing with life. On an alleyway, you both deactivate the suits and step out onto the street wearing your normal clothes to search through the flower market.

You walk around side by side, admiring the different types of flowers available, trying to find the perfect ones for Gabby. You eventually find bouquets that seem to attract both of you; a lovely combination of white and lilac flowers. Together, you choose the best bouquet out of the bunch before continuing to walk around. Despite your mission being accomplished, it seems Miguel is in no rush to leave.

As you both continue to walk around, his gaze turns to you, noticing the way you eye certain flowers with glee and interest. You even stop at certain displays to take a closer look, so Miguel stops to look at them with you, sticking by your side while holding the bouquet he’s already bought.

His brows shoot up when he sees the owner, an older lady, of the display talk to you, inviting you to see further in the back when you stop on theirs.

You shoot him an apologetic smile as the woman enthusiastically talks to you about other options, so he smiles back with a look that lets you know that it’s okay.

“Mujeres. ¿Verdad? [Women. Right?]”

Miguel turns, a little startled by the sudden voice. He finds a man, a much older one.

“¿Disculpe? [Sorry?]” Miguel replies, towering over the man.

“Mujeres divinas. ¿Que haríamos sin ellas? Hermosas. Y mira como les encantan las flores [Divine women. What would we do without them? Beautiful. And look how much they love flowers],” the man says with a smile. “Parece que ya le llevas un arreglo pero le gustan mucho las flores. Así esta mi esposa [looks like you already have an arrangement (bouquet )but she likes flowers. That’s how my wife is],” he says, nodding to the owner. Miguel quickly realizes the owner is the man’s wife. “You know, she pointed you guys out from the little early crowd.”

Miguel clears his throat, looking down at the bouquet of flowers. His mind immediately puts together what the man is insinuating, or rather what he believes.

“She did?” Miguel questions.

“She said that was us thirty-five years ago.”

“Oh,” Miguel says simply for a moment, struck by the fact that two more people have confused him and you for a couple in two weeks, remembering the lady from the grocery store. “We’re… just friends. Best friends.”

The man laughs as his wife and you walk back to them, talking. “That’s how my wife and I started. Friendship is one of the most essential foundations for a blissful and long marriage, mijo [my son]. Take it from me. Thirty-two years of marriage, three kids later. Something to think about, eh? Take care, mijo, and take care of that one, too,” the man says nodding at Miguel and then at you before he withdraws to meet his wife, leaving Miguel speechless.

He watches as the couple talk to you a bit more before finally letting you free. You join his side a few seconds later, smiling.

“Sorry, Mrs. Gonzalez wanted to show me other flowers she has in the back,” you say.

“You learned her name,” Miguel states.

“She introduced herself,” you reply with a shrug. “She was very excited about showing me some flowers. I couldn’t say no.”

“Did you like them?” he asks.

“They were lovely,” you answer, looking at a certain bouquet that caught your eye.

He nods and before you can say anything, he talks to the owners in Spanish.

“Me quiero llevar uno de esos arreglos, por favor. ¿Cuanto es? [I want to take one of those bouquets, please. How much?]”

You watch as the transaction is quickly made between Miguel and Mr. Gonzalez, the latter whispering something to Miguel that you can’t catch.

“¡Gracias, tenga un buen día, don [Thank you, have a good day, sir]!” Miguel says before walking back to you. He hands you the bouquet. “For… you. I noticed you eyeing these.”

You accept them. “Yes, these….” you reply, looking at them and feeling a little awestruck by the fact that you’re suddenly holding a bouquet of flowers bought by Miguel for you. “Thank you. I’ll pay you back. Maybe with some snacks from my universe,” you add at last, moving past the awe, as you both begin to walk.

“No paying back,” Miguel answers as he looks ahead, his tone being one that leaves no room for you argue about it. “It’s… a gift. Look, food trucks. Do you want some breakfast?” Miguel offers, changing the subject, and nodding at the food trucks as you both exit the flower market.

You end up having breakfast on some wooden picnic table under a large umbrella to shield yourselves from the sun since it’s summer now. You talk with ease, the tension from the last few days gone, at last. You both watch as the area quickly fills with more and more citizens from Nueva York, the city coming back to full life.

Instead of swinging back home in your suits, Miguel and you silently agree to walk on the way back. He carries both bouquets of flowers in his arms since he insisted on doing so before you left the picnic table. Together, you walk home, sticking by each other’s side like glue, with Miguel walking closest to the street, keeping you on the inside of the sidewalk.

Once you return home, Miguel and you head to the office room. There, you watch Miguel inject himself with that neon serum you now know about. He looks at you sheepishly as he does so.

“I forgot about it,” Miguel says placing the device down, a glow passing through his crimson eyes.

“It's understandable,” you reply, glad that Miguel is in a different mindset and taking care of this.

With that, you help Miguel print the new photos of Gabby. He makes extra copies for backup purposes, storing them in his personal home computer and multiple USB flashes, or some version of them since they look different in this dimension.

Miguel also retrieves the vase he mentioned the night before and at last, he has everything to set up his little altar for Gabby.

As he places one of the photos in the picture frame, you open the bouquet of flowers he bought for her and arrange it in his mom's vase.

When everything is ready, and the surface has been cleaned properly, you both approach the console table with the items. You stand by, holding the vase, and let Miguel work at his pace.

The photo is placed first and then the vase with pretty and fresh flowers. Miguel retrieves the guitar from where he left it last night and carefully places it next to the console table, taking a few moments to look at it.

He’s glad that it's not hidden away anymore, that he'll be able to look at it every day now. At last, he places a candle and lights it, completing the altar for now. Maybe in the future he'll change something, but right now, it's perfect.

The altar is beautiful. You love the fact that Miguel has added Gabby’s guitar, the flowers that bring such a lovely energy to the living room, but most of all, you love seeing Gabby’s photo on the console table.

And so does Miguel.

You both stand in front of the console table for several minutes, simply admiring and thinking about her in silence.

A while later, you both sit on the rooftop of Miguel’s building, peacefully. You remember that it’s a work day and that both Miguel and you are technically “late” to work by now, but you say nothing. You’re certain Miguel already knows what time it is, and that if he wanted to, both of you would’ve already been there. It seems he’s okay with being late today.

He gazes at the sky, at the soft cloud formations, thinking and unworried about making it to HQ. He trusts that the rest of the team can handle the tasks, just a few more hours, without either of you.

After some time of peaceful silence, Miguel remembers.

“How’s reconstruction going for your building?” he asks.

“It’s almost done. I think in a week or two, we should get the okay to move back in.”

Miguel almost frowns, but he keeps the same look on his face. A week or two. His chest feels heavy all of a sudden and he wonders where time went.

“That’s… Good for the building, and everyone,” Miguel forces himself to say. Sure, he’s glad that everyone will be able to go back, that you’ll have your apartment once again - the one you love so much. Hell, even he misses the comfort and coziness from it, but… Why does the idea hurt him more than he thought it would?

He gulps. In a week or two you’ll be gone, back to your universe. He places his hand on the rooftop’s ground, accidentally brushing his fingers against yours.

“Sorry,” he apologizes instantly, worried he may have squeezed some of your fingers with his larger hand.

“It’s alright,” you reply with a smile, keeping your hand where it was, unbothered.

Miguel places his hand near yours, both of you silent and thinking about your upcoming return to your apartment.

A part of you is happy your place will be available again and yet… You sigh softly, staring at the clouds just like Miguel.

Neither of you say anything else about it, equally avoiding further conversation regarding the matter without knowing.

“I know it’s barely time, but what if we stay here for lunch?” Miguel says after a while. “A homemade lunch.”

“That sounds great,” you reply. “What do you feel like eating?”

“Hmm,” Miguel hums, thinking. “What are you up to?”

You laugh. “I’m up for anything.”

“That narrows it down a lot, thank you,” Miguel says sarcastically with a soft smirk.

“Happy to help,” you reply with your own little smirk.

God, he’s going to miss having you here, Miguel suddenly thinks. He forces himself to not think of that. Not again today. He clears his throat. “Let’s head back. It’s growing hotter. We can think inside of what to cook.”

You both slip back inside the penthouse, into the cool air.

“Maybe we can make some chilaquiles [Mexican dish]?” you offer, now in the living room.

“That’s an idea,” Miguel replies as you both stop in front of Gabby’s altar once more.

You both stare at it, the candle still on.

Slowly, you offer your pinky finger. A second later without hesitation, Miguel wraps his around yours.

“Thank you for sticking around,” he says quietly. “Despite my mood.”

“Always,” you reply. “No matter what.”

Miguel gives your pinky a hug with his own. “Always.”

A minute later, you both head to the kitchen to start prepping lunch, splitting up tasks to finish sooner, leaving Gabby’s altar in the living room.

The candle’s flame flickers and dances, peacefully.

A/N: It's here!! The way life kept holding me back from writing this chapter?? But it's finally here :) I loved writing this one so much (I've loved writing every single chapter lets be real) but I've been planning the concept of you helping Miguel celebrate Gabby's birthday since part 3 when we first learned Miguel doesn't celebrate birthdays but instead, makes an ofrenda for his deceased loved ones. Can't believe we're already on part 17, or that we're even on a part 17 to begin with!

I'm going to make this as quick as possible because you've already given my fic and me so much time of your day/night, so... Some of you may or may not know but this month (July) will make one year since I started writing this story and writing fanfic again in general after several years. To be specific, I posted the first chapter on July 29th. 🥺

I seriously doubt that I'll have the next chapter by then, so I just wanted to take the time today to give you guys a huge THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart 🥹❤️ I say it again, and again, and again, but the support this story and my writing has received since I started writing fanfic again truly means so much to me!! I know I also say this a lot, but I genuinely didn't think many people would be interested to read this fanfic that initially was planned out to be only 3 or 4 parts long (lol). Almost a year later, I'm still writing and this story has turned into something so much more than I planned - so much bigger - thanks to you!! All the comments, the asks, the fanart, and you lovely people I get to interact with ... Wow!!! Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd be back to writing fanfiction, much less have it be received and loved so much!! 🥹

Special thank you to every single artist who has created fanart of Nonviolent Communication!! If you read this, I hope you know that you've made me so incredibly happy, blessed, grateful, honored, and so much more - to see such beautiful art inspired by my fic. Each time a fanart has been posted, I've screamed and cried out of excitement, and that's not exaggeration. I am beyond thankful to have the privilege of saying there's fanart for something I've written (sometimes I'm still like "no way" fr). God - my hands are shaking rn and my chest feels fuzzy. I'm a bit emotional lol, sorry, but THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!! One day I may stop writing (I hope not) but please know I'm always going to cherish all the fanart (which is all saved in my computer and phone, and now tablet because it's that important to me)!!!!! 😭

I'm gonna end it here because as usual, I'm yapping in the author's note and also the tears are coming🫣 but please know, this means so much to me, and ily guys!!! Thank you for inspiring me to write for our fav Spider-Man, Miguel❤️

To celebrate a year, I'll be posting something regarding opening writing requests (for the first time) over the next week, so if you're interested, keep an eye out for my posts. I was trying to come up with something more exciting but that's all I could think of to celebrate!🤣

That's all. Thank you so much for reading again, and ily guys!! Take care!!

And for old time's sake, I still love Miguel O'Hara (even more)!!🥹

Alondra❤️

P.S. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

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wander-over-the-words · 1 year ago

Text

BioFluff Week 2023 Fic #1

Title: La Familia Sinclair.

Prompt: Photos/Memories

Summary: The one where Eleanor looks through Sinclair’s family photo album.

Characters: Augustus Sinclair, Subject Delta, Eleanor Lamb; mentions of Sofia Lamb, Grace Holloway, Stanley Poole, Gilbert Alexander, Little Sisters, Big Daddies.

Pairing: Some Augustus Sinclair/Subject Delta, but mostly just Eleanor and Sinclair family fluff.

Warnings: mentions of deaths of family members, child neglect, child abuse via corporal punishment, murder.

Notes: First submission for a new BioFluff Week! Here’s the response to the prompt ‘Photos’! Shit ton of Sinclair headcanons in this one, alongside some progression of Sinclair and Eleanor’s familial relationship.

Side note: This works as a sequel to my seventh prompt from last year, It’s Not All Sunshine and Rainbows, but it’s not a necessity to read that first; would just help to explain a couple things, and the events of that fic are mentioned in this one.

All material belongs to Irrational Games.

Fic also available on AO3.

…

“Pretty sure I left the waterin’ can inside, sugar,” Sinclair calls to Delta as he steps up onto the porch in his back garden, pulling the soil-stained gardening gloves from his hands and leaving Delta standing by his freshly-planted rose bushes. “Be a lamb an’ wait here - I’ll go fetch it.”

Delta gives him a thumbs up as Sinclair tosses the gloves onto the ground by his foot, then turns and makes his way into the house, not bothering to fix his sleeves from where they’ve been rolled up to his elbows as he places his hands on his hips and ponders what he did with that darn watering can.

He retraces his steps back into the foyer of his lavish home, lifting a hand to his chin to tap at it with one finger.

This morning, at breakfast, he and Delta had been chatting about planting those roses Delta had wanted for the back garden, so Sinclair and Eleanor had gone into town to buy them from that gardening shop they’d gone to for the top soil (which had taken far longer than it’d needed to because he hadn’t had the heart to tell Eleanor to stop asking the employees more questions about plants and the sun and bees and rain and so on and so forth). When they’d brought the flowers home, Delta had taken them out back to start planting right away, and Sinclair had grabbed the watering can from where his gardener had left it in the basement prior to Sinclair’s ‘disappearance’. He’d filled it up at the kitchen sink, and then there’d been a knock at the door.

Door-to-door salesman, something he definitely hadn’t missed when he’d lived in Rapture. With expert charisma, Sinclair had cut the salespitch short and shooed the guy away from his property; when Eleanor had tried to say he’d been rude not to at least listen to what the man had to say, Sinclair had delivered to her a very valuable lesson about living on the surface.

“Honey, listen,” he’d said, pointing toward the doorway. “As someone who worked that job back in his days as a young entrepreneur, let me go ahead and tell you the truth: it’s a scam. They’re alllll scams. The aim of the game, sweet pea, is to either charm the homeowner into buyin’ or annoyin’ ‘em so much that they might as well be fish purchasin’ water - anythin’ to get you off their doorstep. And whether they wanted that product or not, it’ll either break or - well, they’ll never see it in the first place. Their money’s gone, and all they gots left is a hunk of junk. The only sellers goin’ door-to-door that you should ever say more’n two words to are the Girl Scouts when they come by sellin’ their cookies. When they come ta town, everybody wins.

“As for the sellers: they do the same thing, every day, with never a hitch in their schedules, and people get wise to their schemes. Eventually, either the boredom will get to ‘em, or the guilt will. Trust me, honey,” he’d held up his hands, flicking one dismissively toward the door, “that job is nothin’ but a soul-sucker, on both sides of the coin.”

After a moment, he’d smirked, shrugged a shoulder, then smugly adjusted his tie as he added, “But admittedly, it was how I made my first hundred.”

And then he’d gone to the back garden, to join Delta and help him to plant those roses - so that means that, unless it grew legs and ran away, the watering can is on the kitchen counter, next to the sink.

With a nod, Sinclair spins on his heel to start making his way to the kitchen, only to jump as he immediately sees Eleanor sitting on one of the sofas in the living room, quiet as a mouse.

Eleanor apparently hasn’t noticed him either, seated with her feet on the cushions and her knees pulled up; the only reason they aren’t touching her chest is because she has a large book open and propped against her legs. It’s got her full attention.

Starting the walk to the kitchen, Sinclair is about to leave her be when he does a double take at which book she’s holding, with its short-but-wide stature and its thick, brown leather cover with the gold-coloured plating on the corners and matching cursive on the front. He thought it’d just been one of the many books he’d treated her to when they were setting her up in one of the bedrooms upstairs, but now that he takes a second look at it…

“Hold on a moment - have you got my photo album?” he asks.

Eleanor flinches, then looks over at him. Her brow furrows and her shoulders hunch a little, concerned.

“I was only having a look, I swear,” she says.

Lifting a hand in the beginnings of a comforting gesture, Sinclair opens his mouth to reply, falters as something occurs to him, then he frowns disapprovingly and puts his hands on his hips instead.

“Well, I was about ta wax poetic about how you ain’t in trouble for lookin’,” he says, “but it occurs to me that the last I saw of that album, I was puttin’ it away - in my safe.”

Eleanor shrinks back guiltily.

While Sinclair’s office is open for anybody to look at (nothing of interest in there anymore anyways, until he gets his law firm up and running again), his safe is most certainly not. He’d cracked it open soon after returning to the house after so many years, having no problem remembering the code considering it was the number of letters for each of his names (eight-seven-eight-five). Inside had been his most important documents - such as his birth certificate and the deed to his house - but alongside those had been more personal items, like his mother’s handwritten recipes (that he has, of course, memorised), the pocket watch his grandfather had promised him when he’d been small, and that photo album Eleanor’s got in her hands - pretty much the only items that he’d had with him that weren’t clothing or cash when he’d moved away from Panama, the same ones he’d guarded with his life before he’d had a secure place to put them.

When they’d been cleaning the house, Sinclair had popped open the safe to give the inside a polish, just to ensure his belongings would remain pristine, and Eleanor and Delta had caught sight of the book. They’d been too excited for him to have the heart to deny them a peek, and so they’d all ended up flicking through it together. Delta and Eleanor reacted with pure fascination at the pictures of Sinclair’s family members, gotten a good few giggles in at the snapshots of him as a little boy, and Delta had fussed over his baby pictures in particular, making hand gestures to communicate how tiny and adorable Augustus used to be and letting out long croons that - with a more human voice - would’ve been coos.

When they’d finished their trip down memory lane, Sinclair had put the book back in the safe - and he’s certain that he’d locked it back up.

Bristling, he marches over to stand in front of her, reaching for the book with both hands, shutting it, and then passing it to his right hand to brandish it in the air.

“Now, it was one thing ta be sneakin’ around and keepin’ secrets ‘tween you and your daddy - that, I didn’t mind so much,” Sinclair goes on, “but if you’re really gonna be upgradin’ that ta stealin’ from me - especially somethin’ I hold near an’ dear - then we might hafta have a talk (with everybody present) about how you treat the fella lettin’ you live under his roof.”

Eleanor looks a lot more guilty now.

“I’m so sorry,” she says quietly. “You’re right: I shouldn’t have taken it without your permission.”

“Well, no, you shouldn’t have.”

She peeks up at him from beneath her hair.

“I recognise I have no right to ask this of you, but please, don’t tell Father.”

He gets it, he does: she’s spent a lifetime sneaking around her mother - and even Auntie Grace and Uncle Stanley - and such habits are hard to kick.

Since arriving at this house, Sinclair’s caught her multiple times, nosing through his things like she was looking for something damning. He’s walked into a room before only to interrupt a hushed conversation with Delta, and she would turn and look at him like she’ll get in trouble just for chatting with her dad, and he’s previously come downstairs in the night to find her sneaking around his kitchen, taking something from the fridge or grabbing a glass of water or juice, and when she’d noticed him, she’d gotten defensive, as though ready to fight back against some punishment.

He doesn’t think she’s intentionally implying he’s anything like Lamb, though it was tricky not to feel like a third wheel in those early days, and he does approach the situation with understanding. She spent years imprisoned, having to ask for things and stealing when she couldn’t get permission, it’s simply taking some time for her to get comfortable in her new life. When she decided she wanted his photo album, she’d elected to take it while he wasn’t looking, just as she would if she were still locked up in Persephone, with Lamb.

He understands, but that doesn’t mean he appreciates it.

He can see that she feels bad, however, and he knows that she’s trying to get over bad habits, so some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

Really, of all the things she could’ve taken from his safe, his album is the option that makes him the least angry, if only by a fraction - if she’d taken his grandfather’s watch or his mother’s recipes, then she’d be in big trouble.

“Hm. Well.” He looks her up and down, then lowers the book. “Maybe we won’t hafta let your daddy know of my grievances, or your behaviour.” He wiggles the book to gesture to it. “What were you lookin’ at it for, anyway?”

Eleanor averts her eyes.

“I…I only wanted to have another look. That’s all,” she says, and Sinclair can tell that’s not the whole truth.

Sinclair gives a hum.

“That so,” he says rather than asks. “You find my past just that fascinatin’, do ya?”

“Is that…so unbelievable?” Eleanor asks, still not looking at him.

Sinclair doesn’t reply, just lifts his eyebrows up high and stares at her hard, cocking his head slowly to project just how much he doesn’t believe her. His free hand holds his hip, while the album is pressed against the other hip, in lieu of having his hand hold it as well. If she’s going to be stealing his belongings, he has a right to know what she wants with them, he feels.

When he doesn’t speak, Eleanor lifts her gaze to look at him, sees the expression on his face, then bunches up her shoulders even more and averts her eyes again. She’s the picture of a nervous teenager, despite how well she apparently thinks she’s keeping up the nonchalant act, but there is some familiarity in the way that she looks as though she’s trying to hide behind her own shoulders - her father does the same thing.

There’s silence between them for a few moments, Eleanor glances at him again and drops her gaze when she sees he’s still staring, then her brow furrows even more and she speaks.

“...When we were in town last,” Eleanor says, “getting Father’s roses for him…I overheard a conversation, on our way back from the shops. There were some people around the same age as myself, and they were…discussing things that their grandparents had told them. It just…made me realise that I…I can’t relate to that. I don’t have any grandparents to speak of. And any time I brought up such topics with Mother, she would find them ridiculous, so…I’m sorry for being so secretive.”

Hands falling from his hips at last, the rest of the tension leaves Sinclair’s body language, surprised at such a personal response. He almost feels a little guilty for getting upset with her like that, however justified he is.

For a moment, he doesn’t really know what to say, then he shrugs a shoulder.

“Well,” he says hesitantly. “Well, that all depends on…whether your momma’s momma an’ papa are still around. Might be that we could do some diggin’ into Lamb’s family history, be able to scoop up a lead.”

Eleanor hums in reply, but her frown deepens.

“I suppose…yes,” she says quietly, which isn’t the response Sinclair anticipated; for whatever reason, she doesn’t seem quite content with that option.

Sinclair opens his mouth to make another point, then closes it, hesitating.

He doesn’t know if he should mention Delta’s family because…well, it’s an unspoken topic between them all, but upon thinking about it, it’s very easy to work out that it’s nearly impossible for Eleanor to be Delta’s biological child. By the time ‘Johnny Topside’ had arrived in Rapture, Eleanor was already born, so unless Lamb went to extreme lengths to acquire the, ah, genetic material she needed from a man or somehow knew ‘Topside’ beforehand and already had it in her possession (Sinclair winces at the notion that she could have just, what, had it in her suitcase when she came to Rapture?), Eleanor can’t be his.

(Besides, Gil and the other folks who made Delta what he is would have had to have been supremely fucking lucky to have paired Eleanor with her real father, if that had been the case, and nobody in Rapture was that lucky.)

Then again, he knows it doesn’t matter in the long run because Eleanor will never see any man but Delta as her father, blood-related or not, and Delta feels much the same. Truthfully, he doesn’t want to be the one to breach that topic with her, but if there’s a chance it could make her feel better…

He steps lightly: giving another shrug of the shoulder, he adds, “There might…also be a chance of us, ah…findin’ somethin’ out about your daddy. Maybe find whoever raised him into the gentleman we know so well.”

It seems to work: Eleanor’s lips lift up in a hopeful little smile and she nods.

“That does sound lovely,” she says. “And it would be a treat for Father, as well, to get to know his family all over again. I’m sure he’d love that.”

“Course he would,” Sinclair replies with a nod. “We’d just hafta go puttin’ in the hard work ta find out who it was he used to be.”

Eleanor hums again and says no more, so Sinclair rubs the back of his neck and then awkwardly holds out the book as a peace offering.

Eleanor looks up at him, her eyes silently questioning on whether he’s certain, and when he nods, she gratefully takes the album back and flips to the pages she was on before.

Still feeling a little awkward, Sinclair moves over to sit beside her on the couch, on the edge of the cushion, hands on his knees.

“Hm. An’ here I was, thinkin’ you mighta just been scopin’ out ideas fer your own shutterbuggin’,” Sinclair says, trying to lighten the mood a little.

Since arriving on the surface, Eleanor’s taken up photography, brought on by her fascination of the world around her. Sinclair bought her a camera once her interest had become known - since the camera he’d had here at the house was beyond old, she deserved to have the latest thing - and she’d been so thrilled that she’d thrown her arms around him in an excited hug. He’d been so startled, so unused to physical touch beyond what Delta does, that he’d just frozen up, then had cut the hug short with an uncomfortable laugh and shooing hands.

Ever since then, she’s been snapping all over the place. He doesn’t know if she’d gotten any such inspiration from watching her father using the genetic research camera down in Rapture - she doesn’t seem as interested in film as she does photography - but it seems like Delta’s got his own regular junior shutterbug.

Eleanor flashes a smile, then runs a finger over the page she’s got the book on.

“Could you tell me…what your grandparents were like?” she asks after a moment.

Sinclair is briefly caught off guard, thinking they’d moved past the topic, then he cocks his head and stares into space as he thinks.

“Well,” he says, “I don’t recall any of my time with my dear ol’ nana - she went an’ lost her health ta sickness and left us before I ever set my feet on the ground. I was told ‘bout her by my granddaddy, though, an’ he always said she was a…nice lady, if just a bit fiery with her temper.”

He titters, then goes on, “My granddaddy was a modest fella. He was stern, but he was fair, too. But most of all, he just enjoyed bein’ a granddaddy, an’ since we lived under his roof, he got ta spend all the time in the world gettin’ to know me - and I him. He had fun tellin’ me stories - both fictional and non - an’ did his best to help teach me right from wrong. He believed in helpin’ his fellow man, however much that message stuck itself in my mind.”

He looks to Eleanor as he adds, “And if I’m honest, honey: your daddy makes me think of him sometimes, when he’s bein’ especially noble.”

Eleanor smiles gratefully, then turns her attention back to the book.

Sinclair straightens his back and tilts himself to look at the pages she’s got the book flipped to, and just as it was when he first saw those pictures upon returning to Georgia, his heart feels heavier when he sees his late family members. Upon first glance at one of the pictures, he locks eyes with his mother.

These photos are from before Sinclair’s birth, so she looks a little younger than he remembers her, but still just as beautiful, with her brown skin and her wavy, dark hair that’s long enough to reach her chest, her soft face and kind eyes and loving smiles, and her dresses that he remembers as vibrant and colourful, even with these pictures being in black and white.

And even without colour in the photos, it’s clear from just a glance that Augustus got his hair and eyes from her.

Hola, Mama, he thinks with a smile, nostalgic, then his gaze drifts to the older man and woman on either side of her in the picture, taken at some party or event before Sinclair’s birth. Hola, Abuelo y Abuela.

And then his eyes find a photograph on the next page, of his parents on a date, embracing with happy, youthful grins on their faces, and he looks the younger image of his father in his eyes as his own face falls.

Papa, he regards him calmly and says no more than that.

His focus is broken when Eleanor starts flipping pages, startling him and making him look to her, surprised.

Most pictures of his grandparents are in the section of the album from before his birth, since his nana died so soon afterwards; he would’ve thought Eleanor would’ve wanted to look at those, to see the two of them together.

But no - Eleanor’s still flipping over several pages, skipping the time before Sinclair’s life had started and all of his baby pictures (and God knows, Mama and Abuelo made sure to take plenty), until she stops upon a page with a soft hum of amusement, then turns the pages much slower now, actually taking in what she’s seeing.

Sinclair sits back on the couch and picks up his glasses from where they’re dangling off his neck, putting them on to see better what she’s looking at.

Snapshots of his childhood, from age three, according to the writings on the slips of paper under each image. His mother and grandfather were dedicated to capturing practically every minute of his early years, being his biggest fans and all - and of course, for every image of him being the sole figure, there’s a picture of him with either or both of them. Not hard to capture, either - he’d spent all of his time together with them - but Abuelo was especially generous in letting his daughter be in the most photos with his grandson. Seemed to be more excited taking the pictures than being in them; Sinclair almost wishes there were more of he and his grandfather together.

Sinclair skims the photos whenever Eleanor stops on a page, looking at his child self: a poor but tidy little kid, young enough that his dark hair was still a little fluffy, even when combed as neatly as Mama could get it. He’s dressed in baggy, long-sleeved shirts and equally baggy trousers, in tiny little suits whenever they went to church, and he’s smiling and laughing in all of these pictures, with baby fat still in his cheeks and already getting round around the waist, a neat foreshadowing to his present day figure.

His brow furrows slightly at the earlier pictures of he and his mother, stopping at one where she’s crouching down to his height and hugging him tightly, captured amidst blowing a raspberry against his cheek, and Augustus’s past self is frozen mid-laughter, little hands holding the fabric of his mama’s bright dress.

All of his memories of his mother are like that, with her making him laugh and smile, and her smiling and laughing in return - because that was the kind of mother she was. He’d been mostly oblivious to familial situations - their lack of money, what was going on behind the scenes with his father - when he’d been young because his mother always made sure to shield him from the harsh realities, to block his view with her smile and her warm hugs and kisses and her baking. From the second she knew about him, Augustus was the light of her life, and she made sure he knew that.

He still thinks it’d been the worst day of his life, when she’d died.

Her baking is in the pictures too: there’s a photo of one of her pies on the current page, and then the picture next to it is little Augustus sitting in his mother’s lap with a plate resting atop his knees. A slice of the aforementioned pie sits upon the plate, a couple of bites taken from it, and Augustus is holding up a spoon toward his mother, offering the little wedge of pie on top to her. Judging by how she’s leaning in with her smile open and a proud, grateful look in her eyes, she’s accepted his offer.

To this day, he’s still never tasted a pie better than the ones his mama made, or even just as good. Not even when he’d tried to replicate them himself.

“Your mother…She seemed lovely,” Eleanor says quietly, reaching out and touching the picture with a finger delicately, careful not to smudge it.

“She was,” Sinclair says wistfully. “Nicest lady you’d ever meet, no matter where you’d go.”

“And she baked so often.” Eleanor observes, turning pages over in one group, then using her thumb to flick through those to prove how many pictures feature his mother’s food. “This first lot of pages are full of pictures of…pies and cakes and such.”

Sinclair gives a fond grin. “Yeah, that was her hobby. She liked stitchin’ together clothin’ for us too, but there was just that spark in her eyes and a spring in her step when it came to the kitchen. She loved it. Mostly cause she liked havin’ people stuffin’ themselves full of her food, made that spring in her step extra high ta see folks enjoyin’ the fruits of her labour, and I always got the first piece of whatever she made,” he prods himself in the chest with a finger, “cause what I thought was more important to her than anythin’, as her baby.”

He cocks his head and gives his tummy a pat as he adds, “Which, come ta think of it, was probably where I adopted my taste for the sweeter things in life…”

Glancing at him, Eleanor gives him a smile, then looks back to the photographs to turn the page.

More pictures of he and his grandfather and his mother together; Sinclair sees Eleanor’s attention go to the snapshot of he and his mother’s old tradition of dancing around the kitchen, little Augustus balanced on her feet. More grins and frozen laughter, more of the adoration in their eyes; the norm, for the two of them. Only person who’s ever gotten him to dance, too - well, until recently, since Delta did the impossible and got him to slow dance to some of his old records after Eleanor had gone to bed.

Seems poetic that way, considering he’s never loved anybody as much as he loved his mama until Delta came along, even if the types of love are different. Makes him a little sad to know she’ll never meet the fella that turned his life around, despite the knowledge that Mama probably wouldn’t look upon their relationship with ease. She was a woman of God, after all, and here her precious baby boy is, in love with another man, never mind Delta’s current appearance.

He wants to believe she could’ve gotten over it, though, if only after knowing how much Delta’s influence has changed him - because he also isn’t oblivious to the fact that if she had seen him to his adult years, she would be absolutely ashamed of him, as would Abuelo. Even without the events down in Rapture; the scamming, the lying, the lack of empathy for his clients - they would’ve disowned him, and he would have to beg them for forgiveness.

(Then again, if his mama had lived to see him as an adult, he wouldn’t be the man he is today because when Mama said “No”, he listened. She adored him, yes, but she knew when to put her foot down. She would’ve taught him right from wrong far better than Papa ever did - or didn’t, as it were.)

Doesn’t do him well to think about falling out with either of them, so Sinclair looks down at the pictures of them together and focuses on them instead.

There’s a photo of himself sitting on a stool with an arepa con queso, munching on it as he watches Abuelo putting up shelves in one of the rooms of their house; the picture’s snapped his grandfather smiling down at him amidst reaching up to hold one of the pieces in place before he nails it to the wall. He remembers Abuelo saying Augustus could help him, which basically amounted to being allowed to tell him to work harder while he sat on a stool and ate the snacks Mama brought for them, though he does remember Abuelo letting him choose what colour to paint the shelves and lifting him up on his shoulders to test them with one of his toys. See if Abuelo’s work got the Augustus Approval.

Underneath that, there’s a picture of his mama sitting in a chair in their living room, with his little self dressed in his pyjamas (he remembers they were powder blue) and pulled into her lap, his head against her heart as he slumbers. She’s smiling down at him warmly, and Augustus knows this is one of those times where she’d sung and rocked him to sleep. Probably comforting him; he used to be scared of the dark as a kid, and he recalls how he used to go scrambling out of bed at the slightest bump in the night, yelling for her, and then hiding his face in her shoulder when she inevitably came running and scooped him up into her arms.

“...She seemed to adore you,” Eleanor says quietly; when Sinclair looks over at her, he sees she’s looking at the same picture as he is.

“She did,” he replies, “and I her. See, she was a lot like my granddaddy, an’ not just cause both of ‘em had the same blood runnin’ through their veins: she was happy to be a momma, despite everythin’ that preceded and proceeded my birth.”

Eleanor stares silently, thoughtfully, then she hums with a small pout and hastily turns more pages.

Sinclair is perplexed by her behaviour, but leaves his questions in his head as he looks at the book, watching her flip through pages just slow enough that he can see the pictures (and there’s a cold stinging sensation in his blood when he sees the photos containing his grandfather come to a sudden end) until she stops on a seemingly random page.

On the rightmost page, there’s one, large photograph taking up the space. His mother is holding him in her arms, he’s bigger than he was in the previous pictures, and both of them are grinning at the camera - but the photo is one of the rare ones where his father is in it too.

He’s standing on the other side of Augustus, glass of something (probably booze, Sinclair thinks) in his hand. His father was a white man, tall and somewhat imposing (or maybe he just seemed that way, in Sinclair’s youth), with a head of black hair, clipped short compared to the mess it was in the photo from earlier, and a bushy moustache on his lip that had long convinced Sinclair not to grow his own facial hair out. Dressed in a suit that’s a little on the shabby side, a little ill-fitting, and he’s nowhere near as friendly-looking as Sinclair’s mother.

He’s looking at the camera, but he isn’t looking at it like his son and wife are, and instead of grinning, his expression is stony.

They’re in the living room, surrounded by balloons and a few wrapped presents, and on the table in front of them is a cake covered in white icing and topped with a ring of strawberry chunks. The banner above their heads proclaims Feliz cumpleaños!.

Eleanor points at it. “What does this translate to?”

“Happy birthday,” Augustus replies. “That looks to be my…” he trails off as he tilts himself to check the Spanish writing beneath the photograph, “...seventh birthday.”

Eleanor nods, then frowns confusedly.

“Your father isn’t smiling. Why isn’t he smiling?” she asks. “If it’s your birthday, then…he should be happy?”

Sinclair scoffs out a sarcastic laugh.

“He should be, shouldn’t he?” he says with fake amusement, then shakes his head. “He ain’t smilin’, honey, cause he doesn’t feel like it.”

Eleanor’s frown only tightens.

“But why wouldn’t he feel like it? Your joy should bring joy to him - you’re his child.”

“Mm-hm,” Sinclair replies, crossing one leg over the other’s knee to rest there. “Precisely.”

Eleanor turns her head to look at him then.

“I don’t…understand.”

Dropping his gaze to his lap, Sinclair sighs through his nose, thinks about how to word this, then taps his own knee casually and settles on what to say.

“Sweetheart,” he says, turning his head to look at Eleanor again, “I recognise that you hit the jackpot when it came ta fathers, but some of us other folk ain’t as lucky. Yours is more than happy to be your daddy, while mine rued the day he was told he was gonna be one - unlike my momma, who was fond o’ me the second she learned about the bun bakin’ in her belly. My daddy didn’t go into romancin’ my momma with the idea of settlin’ down, you see, and so when I came around, he decided ta let me know just how much he resented me bein’ in his space.”

He shakes his head, then looks her in the eye.

“What I’m sayin’, sweet pea, is that he didn’t want me - and he made sure I knew that.”

Eleanor’s eyes widen at him, then she turns to point her eyes down at the photo album again, staring at it without really staring at it. He can see her turning this over in her head; she looks distressed.

After all, her experience with fatherhood is much different, going from not having one to having one forced on her, but bonding with him all the same and loving him by choice. She acknowledged back in Persephone that Delta might’ve not wanted a daughter, might’ve not wanted her, but that she loved him anyway, and once they’d all had a chance to breathe after the lifeboat had burst out of the water, Delta had assured her the best he could that she was his girl, despite having been brought together by strangers in lab coats rather than blood or prior interaction.

By all accounts, Sinclair would say Delta’s a fantastic father, even without the whole plot of tearing through a hellhole of a city to get back to his girl. He encourages Eleanor’s interests, protects and comforts her when she’s frightened by something no matter how small, worries for her and won’t hesitate to tell her off if she pushes the limits (coming from him, it’s a growl and a wag of the finger, but it does the job just fine) - and of course, he’s as much a great, big cuddlebug to her as he is to Sinclair, so there’re hugs a-plenty.

Like Sinclair had said, she’s lucky to have a good father, someone who adores her and shows it in everything he does; Delta has made peace with the concept of Eleanor being his daughter - first when he was brainwashed and just as easily after he was cured - and he loves it.

Sinclair’s father, on the other hand, never got that far with him. To Sinclair’s mother and grandfather, he was a gift from God. To Sinclair’s father, he was a nuisance that ruined his father’s life.

There’s silence between them as Augustus lets Eleanor think on this, then her eyes widen.

“Made sure you knew it…” she mutters thoughtfully, then looks to him in rising worry. “Does that mean…?! Are…Are you implying that he harmed you?”

Ah.

Sinclair opens his mouth, closes it, then says, “Uh, well, now - see, he showed it in lots o’ ways, honey, like never feedin’ me or changin’ me when I was fresh out the oven, never came runnin’ when he heard me cryin’, never read to me or played with me, certainly wasn’t interested in talkin’ with me - come to think of it, I ain’t sure we ever had a proper conversation ‘til my momma -”

“Augustus,” Eleanor cuts in, turning some in her seat to look at him, still with elevating concern on her face, “did your father harm you?”

Sinclair falters, unsure of what to say.

He hadn’t meant to imply that in the first place, and he clearly hasn’t done well to sway her from the topic - she’s an observant girl and she’s onto him - but to be honest, he’s surprised to see her getting so suddenly worked up over this. He agrees, the notion is horrible, but…?

Sinclair hesitates, tries to think of how to delicately word this when he knows she’ll find it upsetting, then looks her in the face.

“...A handful o’ times,” he says, watching her worry turn into horror. “It was his idea of teachin’ me discipline.”

“Discipline? How is that discipline?! How could he possibly -” She cuts herself off to ask, “What - What would he even do to you?”

Sinclair can only sigh.

He supposes if he isn’t honest on the topic, as much as he doesn’t want to upset her, then her mind will conjure things up, and she’ll be under some wrong impression and theorise worse things than what really happened.

He hangs his head for a moment, hesitating, then lifts it to look at her as he says, “For the littler things - like botherin’ him when he was tryin’ to relax or speakin’ outta term - he would jus’ smack me upside the head (or - wherever he could reach at the time), just to let me know I was startin’ to cross a line there. And if I crossed that line, he would, ah…take a belt to the backs of my hands. Hit ‘em until they were sore all over, maybe even…left behind some marks.” He clears his throat. “An’ God forbid he heard me speakin’ in an ungentlemanly way - in that case, he would haul me over to the sink, push my head in the water an’ take a bar of soap to my mouth.”

He clicks his tongue distastefully as he mutters to himself, “Can still taste it sometimes,” before he remembers who he is in the presence of; he looks to her with wide eyes before hastily adding, “But that was all when I was bad, of course, and - Lord knows, I gave my teachers hell sometimes, but my daddy didn’t see it fit to do this sorta stuff on the regular.”

“So he only did it sometimes?” Eleanor nearly snaps, shooting down his attempt at making the situation just a little better, then scoffs in disgust and mutters bitterly, “That doesn’t make it right.”

“Trust me, honey, I ain’t sayin’ it was my preferred method when it came ta parentin’ (‘specially since I was the child in that scenario), just that my daddy didn’t fetch his belt over every little thing.”

She looks away to stare into space, scowling now, then looks back at him.

“Is…that why you refuse to use bad language? Because of what that man did to you?”

“Hm. No. I don’t like swearin’,” he says curtly, “because there’re a million words out there - treasure trove of language - and anybody who resorts ta cursin’ just to make their point heard is a person who ain’t mastered the art of speakin’ - either that, or their momma didn’t raise ‘em right. My preferences have got nothin’ ta do with my daddy. Fact is, the only reason I’ve ever cursed in my life was cause I was nearly your age and feelin’ rebellious.”

He looks to her. “And you’d surely know a thing or two about rebellin’, now, wouldn’t you?”

That was supposed to make her smile, but she’s too caught up with this new information to really take part in the amusement, still scowling.

“You were a teenager…Hardly younger than me…” she says thoughtfully, then asks, “What about when you were little? Did he harm you then?”

Sinclair hesitates - he really shouldn’t be talking about this sort of thing when he knows it’s upsetting her so much, but then he knows she’s not going to drop it if he doesn’t answer, or she’ll get the wrong idea and think he was black and blue his entire childhood - and holds up a finger.

“He only did it the once. Just the one time. I…don’t recall what it was I did that set ‘im off, but…he grabbed me by my arm, held me in place so’s that he could put a beat down on me. I cried loud enough that my momma came runnin’ and, well…”

He arches an eyebrow at her.

“You remember how your daddy would rip people apart for puttin’ their hands on you?”

Eleanor nods.

“Well, my momma didn’t have the strength for that, nor did she have a man-sized drill or an array of guns, but she put up the same kinda fight that your daddy did. I wasn’t audience to the whole thing, o’ course, since my granddaddy got me outta there in a second, but my daddy never tried ta lay a hand on me again, for as long as my momma lived.”

He gives a huff of a chuckle. “Ta be honest, that’s why I never understood why they elected ta make Big Daddies. People in charge o’ that project had obviously never heard nor seen a momma bear in action.”

Eleanor’s expression lets up just a little, momentarily comforted by the fact that Augustus didn’t suffer for his entire childhood, but then her scowl returns.

“That’s revolting,” she says angrily. “What a vile way to treat one’s child.”

Sinclair shrugs a shoulder. “That’s just how things were back in my day, honey. Was the regular to discipline yer children with a bit o’ pain - though, most folks favoured the traditional method of spanking. In some folks’s eyes, I was spoiled for not gettin’ disciplined ‘properly’. I certainly wasn’t the only child gettin’ smacked in the world, and I was most certainly not the last. Hell - I think you’ll find, sweetie pie, that some folks continue my daddy’s practises, both up here and in Rapture.”

“The last person I ever saw harming a child was soon ripped apart by a man just like Father,” Eleanor says bitterly, to which Sinclair gives an admitting shrug. “And anybody who would follow their example simply doesn’t deserve to have children.”

Sinclair gives a humourless chuckle, then rubs Eleanor’s shoulder comfortingly.

He says, “But don’t let yerself get worked up and upset about it. Nobody’s laid a hand on me in years - well, nobody but Splicers - and you can take some comfort in the fact that your daddy would never lay a finger on you.”

He takes his hand from her shoulder and, when he sees that Eleanor is still cross, he leans in and nudges her with his elbow.

“Strictly speakin’, you can also take some comfort, I suppose,” he says, “in the fact that my papa’s been dead an’ buried since before I could begin the path that he trod: with a bottle. Now,” he rubs his chin, “my granddaddy always said we should never celebrate the death of our fellow man, but, well, he ain’t here an’...you never met ‘im, so I reckon that entitles you ta feel however you’d like to feel - if you’re wantin’ to talk loopholes.”

Eleanor looks at him. “Is that the way you felt, when he finally passed away? Did you feel…relieved? Did you celebrate?”

Sinclair raises his eyebrows and looks her in the eye, fixing her with a serious look.

“Now, would you celebrate if you heard of your momma passin’ away?” he asks.

Eleanor’s face falls guiltily, clearly understanding that she’d gotten the wrong end of the stick, and shakes her head.

(They have no idea where Lamb is nowadays; she’d disappeared during the first night they were all on the surface, whilst they’d been asleep. Only Delta saw her go, but he’d communicated that she hadn’t said a word to him before leaving; they’d just shared a look, then she walked out the door and never looked back. For all intents and purposes, Sinclair considers that her officially surrendering custody of Eleanor to Delta - and himself, now. He’d offered to go look for her when they’d realised she was gone, but Eleanor had declined; she’d clearly been sad that her mother would just leave like that, but she made no effort to look for her or ask around for her, and she still hasn’t in all the time they’ve been in Georgia. Now, the topic of her mother is rarely brought up; he understands that Eleanor’s feelings toward her are…complicated, and Sinclair’s own feelings towards her are better left unsaid, for Eleanor’s sake.)

“Honey,” Sinclair goes on, “I understand how things sound from your point of view - but I was there, and I know how things really were between he and I. Sure, we were nothin’ like you and your daddy - Lord knows, we were somethin’ more like you an’ your momma - but the whole situation was…more complicated than it may have first seemed. Things weren’t all bad, and he did step up (if even a little) once my momma couldn’t take care of me anymore.

“And at the end of the day, sweetheart,” he says, nudging her with his elbow again, “he was still my daddy. An’ not only that, but he was also the only person I had left in the world, so…you gotta understand where I’m comin’ from. Got it?”

(He also doesn’t mention to her that he was the person to find his father’s body; this chat’s been serious enough already, she doesn’t need to hear about that.)

“...Yes. I understand,” Eleanor says with a nod, then chews her lip before adding, “I’m just…sorry. That you had to grow up in an environment like that.”

“D’aw, now,” Sinclair mutters, waving a hand dismissively. “Thank you for the kind words, sweet pea, but I’m just fine. Reckon I turned out,” he falters, then says, “at least a little on the good side of the line.”

Eleanor gives him a small smile, then replicates his elbow nudge.

“I think you turned out far more than a little on the good side of the line.”

Slightly taken aback, Sinclair gives her a smile.

They both look back to the book as Eleanor goes back to turning pages, going over Sinclair’s later childhood.

A muted sadness settles in Sinclair’s heart as he sees the photo of his ninth birthday, another one of himself and his mama and papa; when Eleanor turns the page, the first picture is of him, just him, smiling shyly at the camera, and then the next is his tenth birthday, and that photograph only contains himself and his father, standing side-by-side beneath the same banner from before. The writing beneath these photos is untidy and clearly a child’s handwriting.

And then the next picture is his eleventh birthday. Then his twelfth. Then his thirteenth. His fourteenth. Fifteenth. Sixteenth. Seventeenth. And then his eighteenth, where he is the lone figure, with his birthday cake.

And then Eleanor turns the page, and there’s a picture of Sinclair in a suit with a stripey blazer, white slacks and a Panama hat atop his head. Beneath it is an outdated dollar bill.

“Ah - there, ya see.” Sinclair leans over to point. “That there’s me back when I was goin’ door-to-door. If I recall rightly, I asked a fella on the street ta take my picture for me. An’ that there’s,” he points again, “my hundredth dollar.”

“You kept the dollar?” Eleanor asks incredulously, grinning in amusement.

“Course I did - it was my hundredth dollar, earned all by myself. Before that, the only money I had was left behind from my parents an’ my grandparents before ‘em, alongside the odd bit o’ change I got from trickin’ my fellow students back at school. But that dollar? I got that all by myself, through hard work. Believe I had a right ta be proud of that.”

“Didn’t you just earlier tell me that that job is just one, big scam and a ‘soul-sucker’?” Eleanor asks, turning her head to look at him and raising her eyebrow.

Sinclair stammers for a moment, then says, “Well, it was, it’s just - that didn’t seem like such an issue back then, heh.”

Eleanor smiles, amused, and looks to the right-most page: a picture of a slightly older Sinclair in a cap and gown, shaking hands with an older man, with his rolled diploma in his other hand (“Now, there’s me graduatin’ from law school,” Sinclair says to her), and underneath that, a wide shot of the house they currently reside in, with Sinclair standing on the porch, arms out at his sides and a grin just barely visible on his face from this distance.

She turns the page again and again and again, only to find the rest of the album empty. She gives a little frown as she turns the pages back to the collection of birthday photos, the only evidence left of Sinclair’s growth from child to teenager, compared to the vast collection of his earlier years.

(And Sinclair gives a little wince at seeing his teenaged self, now dressing in full suits; sixteen was the age he started experimenting with hair pomade, and Sinclair can only look disapprovingly at the way his younger self has practically plastered his hair to his scalp, rather than genuinely styling it. Gives a small shake of his head and thinks Boy, you had no idea what you were doin’, did you?)

“I suppose your father didn’t have as much interest in recording your ageing as your mother and grandfather did,” she says, somewhat bitterly.

Sinclair gives another admitting shrug.

Her frown deepens, glaring at the image of Sinclair’s father beside him in the pictures, then grabs a handful of pages to turn backwards.

It takes them back to Sinclair’s earlier childhood, his mother and grandfather alive and well again, back to coddling Sinclair’s child self. There’s a photograph of Augustus - about three years old - fast asleep in his grandfather’s lap, with his grandfather lulled to sleep against the head of his armchair, clearly a sneaky shot by Augustus’s mother (and Sinclair can tell it happened amidst story time, since that was generally the reason he’d be sat upon his granddad’s thigh like that).

Underneath it is his child self as the sole figure, proudly showing the camera a drawing he’s done with crayons; brings back the memory of excitedly showing Mama and Abuelo what he’d drawn and them acting like it was the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen, gushing about how he’ll grow up to be an artist, for sure. Any attempts to show Papa had had him gruffly telling his son “Not now, Augustus,” and walking away.

Nowadays, Sinclair’s decent at drawing, though he’s better at drawing buildings and scenary than people.

On the next page, there’s Sinclair and his mother in the kitchen. The camera is behind them as they work at the counter, with Sinclair’s past self standing on a chair so that he can reach, but they’ve got their heads turned to look at each other, so Eleanor can see the way they’re smiling at each other with utter adoration.

She smiles at the pictures, but then her face falls into another thoughtful little frown and she once again raises a finger to carefully stroke over the image of Sinclair and his mum.

“I think I like these pictures better,” she says quietly.

“So do I, honey, so do I,” Sinclair replies.

All’s quiet between them, Eleanor even stops turning pages. Her brow is scrunched up more than before as she stares down at the photograph, brushing the bottom right corner with a finger like before.

Sinclair’s inclined to offer a penny for her thoughts, but she speaks before he can.

“About your mother...Do you…Do you suppose…Do you think she would have…liked me?”

Sinclair’s face falls in his surprise, eyes wide, as a jolt goes through his heart as a sudden understanding dawns on him.

All this obsession with the topic of grandparents, her apparent disinterest in the option of having Lamb’s parents around to be these grandparents she desires, even when they’re her actual biological family (though, he sympathises with not wanting to meet the people responsible for raising a woman like Lamb), and the fact that upon stealing his photo album, she didn’t fuss over the photos of his grandparents, but his parents…

Sinclair’s not oblivious. He’s always known what it would mean to get into a relationship with a man who is also a father: even when he and Eleanor had had their awkward camaraderie, Sinclair would still have to play the role of a…a guardian to her, especially so until Delta gets out of that suit and can (hopefully) show his face in public. Lord knows, it’s obviously not legal for he and Delta to marry (and it’s far too early for that sort of thing, anyway), but with his relationship with her dad being what it is anyway, he would technically be a sort of…step-father to her.

Hell, they’ve already described him as such to the people who have asked: a couple of cops had turned up on their first day in this house, suspicious after it’d been left for twenty-odd years, only for the homeowner - who had ‘mysteriously disappeared’ - to turn up out of the blue. No doubt they knew as well of Sinclair’s old reputation of being the town’s resident bad guy: with a distinct air of distrust toward him, they’d asked Eleanor if she knows ‘this man’.

The two of them had tried saying they were father and daughter, then hastily ‘corrected’ themselves when it dawned on them how unbelievable that is, considering not only do they have completely different accents, but they look absolutely nothing like each other.

(Sinclair had been inclined to sarcastically tell them to have a look at her real father, see how much like her he doesn’t look. Unfortunately, rather than saying that, he’d had to say he was married to her ‘late’ mother, the thought of which…still makes him feel nauseated.)

But that was for the sake of a lie, for the sake of Sinclair not being accused of anything unsavoury, for the sake of removing any suspicion from the fact that Augustus Sinclair has turned up after twenty-something years of being missing, now accompanied by a random teenager and a strange diving suit statue that had stood at the side of his living room.

(Questioning that last thing had had Sinclair sarcastically asking the coppers if he comes to their homes and insults their interior decorating - and he’d had to quickly distract them when a noise that kind of sounded like a whale laughing came from the statue.)

This right here, what he believes Eleanor to be implying, is…something different.

Sinclair’s never been a family man; even when he was a child, being told he would grow up to find a beautiful wife and have tons of babies, he would baulk at the idea and wonder if that was really his only option. It didn’t change when he was a teenager, where he was more obsessed with money, since he was learning the art of the scam (of course, back in those days, his prizes were measly amounts of pocket money and cigarettes), whilst all of his fellow male classmates were talking about girls - which, obviously, wasn’t his inclination anyway.

He’d been content living here before, by his lonesome. He’d had staff members, sure, but they didn’t sleep here and certainly didn’t live here, were never invited to. This huge house was his and his alone, and he’d been completely fine with that. No spouse, no children - the way he’d always seen his life going.

And now…there’s Delta, who he never wants to be without again.

And there’s…Eleanor, who he’s always thought of as a sweet girl, and he’d sympathised with her back in Rapture, but who had never been part of his plan upon getting to the surface.

He’d said as much, telling Delta about that private island of theirs - and very pointedly not mentioning Eleanor. Whether Delta had picked up on that, he’s not sure; the big guy was just so jazzed about the island and then Sinclair telling him about this house, over in Georgia. Could be he just assumed Sinclair forgot to mention her because - obviously, looking back on it now - Delta was never going to let Sinclair get away with leaving Eleanor behind, and not just because he’d needed her to live.

He’s aware they’ve grown closer over the time in this house - Eleanor had shown her growing fondness for him when she sought his comfort during that tornado last month and was evidently concerned for his safety, she’d shown it just earlier when she’d grown furious on his behalf over his father’s treatment of him, and he’d felt it back during that tornado’s visit, when he’d felt protective over her when she was frightened. The thought was still a little scary, but he’d embraced it and everything had turned out okay.

All in all, he’s accepted his role as her guardian.

But if Eleanor’s looking to have his parents be her grandparents posthumously, then that means she’s starting to look at him as a…a parent…and that’s a little more scary than the notion that they’re moving past their awkwardness toward each other. He’s spent his entire life being contently childfree, he can’t just change that in the blink of an eye.

And actually now, looking at it, he sees how she might’ve starting getting that impression, what with him buying her things that she’ll like, comforting her when she’s worried or scared, and even scolding her earlier when she’d crossed one of his lines (and, oh, God, that whole ‘stare until the child admits their wrong-doings’ is what his Abuelo used to do, oh, God). The realisation makes him feel…itchy.

Though, honestly? If one had explained this whole thing to him a few months ago, he would’ve laughed himself silly. But now that he’s here, in the moment…well. He isn’t sure about parent and child - Eleanor’s moving at a pace he can’t quite keep up with there - but to recognise Eleanor as…family, at least…

That doesn’t sound…so ridiculous anymore. Being considered a dad makes him blanche still, but family…that’s a start, that’s…comfortable.

(Although - his mind briefly drifts to the notion of her calling him, what? Other Father? Step-Father? The thought makes him sweat, and he genuinely hopes she won’t start calling him that any time soon. ‘Augustus’ is just fine, he thinks.)

Sinclair comes out of his head and focuses back on Eleanor, looking all shy as she tries to hide behind bunched up shoulders again, fiddling with the corner of the page she’s still got the book turned to.

Here it is again - seeing her like that gives him the urge to make her feel better, and the only way to do that is -

“Ya wanna know what I think, honey?” he says, nudging her with his elbow again. “I think my momma woulda liked you very much.”

In an instant, Eleanor drops her shy demeanour and turns her head to look at him fully, smiling wide with a hopeful look in her big, blue eyes - and the sight of her like that warms his heart.

“Really? Do you mean that?” she asks.

“Mm-hm. See, I’m bettin’ that if I took ya down to meet her, she’d start sayin’ ‘Augustus, why aren’t you feeding this girl?’, and then she’d go ahead and bake you one o’ her trusty old pies and serve you more slices than you can eat. Hell, she’d probably cook you a whole big dinner, with all the foods she used ta make for me, and then she’d probably take you aside and wanna measure you up for a dress or somethin’.”

Eleanor appears positively giddy at the thought, wiggling a little in her seat in excitement, then she asks, “Do you think she would have liked Father, as well?”

Sinclair cocks his head and rubs the back of his neck.

“Well…that’s another one of those complicated situations I was talkin’ about,” he says, then gives her a half-smile, “but…I like ta think she woulda liked him very much as well. Personally, I struggle ta think of anybody who can’t grow ta like your daddy (obvious options aside), and besides, he keeps me from gettin’ into trouble, which she’d be more’n grateful for, I’m sure.”

Eleanor giggles, then looks down at the pictures, chuffed to bits. After a moment, however, she frowns and looks back at him.

“And I’m guessing that your father wouldn’t have been a fan of mine?” she asks.

Sinclair gives a puff of a chuckle.

“I highly doubt it.”

Eleanor gives a “Hmph,” as she turns her nose up and shuts her eyes before haughtily saying, “Good. I wouldn’t have been a fan of his either. And I can’t imagine what Father would’ve done, had they had the chance to meet.”

Sinclair gives another humourless laugh.

Honestly, he wouldn’t have put it past his father to try to get physical with him even now, at his age; dear old Dad liked to be top dog around the place, enjoyed being the ‘man of the house’, and Augustus would always have been lower than him on the status ladder, in his eyes.

Brings to mind the notion of his father giving him a smack, only to unleash the beast that is Subject Delta. He can see it in his imagination: Delta suddenly roaring furiously like he had any time a Splicer got too close to Sinclair down in Persephone, throwing aside furniture to get to Sinclair’s dad, and Sinclair having to hurry to get between them before Delta reduced his father to paste on the floor.

(Though, to be honest, Sinclair’s not giving Delta enough credit there; he has self-control, after all. The criminal being Sinclair’s dad - worst Delta would’ve done was grab him and hoist him up in the air to frighten him. Make it clear that he is to never harm Augustus again, or he really would end up as paste on the floor.)

“Then we’ll say it’s a fortunate turn of events that your daddy will never meet mine,” Sinclair says with a smirk.

Eleanor looks at him, smiling now, then looks back down at the photo album delightedly.

Sinclair lets her think her thoughts before watching her turn back to the later photos in the book, until she gets to the last photo - and then she flips the page, to the blank spots.

“There’s so much space in here, still,” she says, then looks at him, turning slightly shy again. “Do you suppose we could…put our photographs in here as well?”

Their photos. In a family photo album. Alongside pictures of his parents and his grandparents.

There’s that feeling again.

He still feels hesitant in the face of this new title, but she’s looking at him all hopeful again, and he already feels sore at the mere thought of telling her no, so…

Sinclair opens his mouth to reply, only to stop and look over Eleanor’s shoulder as there comes the telltale thump-thump-thump of heavy footsteps coming closer, and Eleanor looks over too as Delta steps through the doors to the foyer, looks around, then sees them and gives a soft grunt. He starts making his way over.

“Oh!” Sinclair exclaims, sliding forward in his seat, unsure of whether he should meet Delta halfway. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry! I just went an’ ditched you by your roses, didn’t I?”

Delta shrugs. Doesn’t mind, he just came to make sure everything was okay. All’s forgiven.

He comes walking into the living room, over to Eleanor’s side of the couch, stops behind Eleanor’s shoulder, then tilts at the waist to appear curious, silently asking what’s going on.

“That’s my fault, I’m afraid, Father,” Eleanor says, smiling up at him. “I had him distracted. But look: we were having another look at Augustus’s family photo album.”

Delta gives a thoughtful rumble, then his shoulders perk upwards as he leans over and pokes at the top corner of the book’s cover, indicating that he wants Eleanor to turn to an earlier page.

Eleanor grins with amusement as she immediately knows what he’s referring to.

Sinclair knows what Delta’s referring to as well, judging by the way he shakes his head with a smile full of fake exasperation and says, “Oh, c’mon, now, chief…”

Eleanor turns back the pages in one massive group, all the way to the start of the book; she goes a little too far, to the time before Sinclair’s birth, and flips a couple of pages before finding an example of what Delta wants to see.

On the rightmost page, two large photographs take up the entire space: on the left is Sinclair’s mother, younger and still with pregnancy weight, her arms full with a little baby swaddled in a blanket, fast asleep against her heart. On the right is the same scene, only this time, the camera’s been moved to the side of her and closer for the sake of focusing specifically on the baby, his mother starting to get cropped out of frame. Her smile can still be seen, however, only now it’s less relaxed and proud and more amusedly exasperated - and it looks exactly like the one Sinclair’s currently wearing.

This close, it’s easier to see that the baby is chubby-cheeked and has a smattering of dark hair on their head the same colour as their mama’s, at peace in their mama’s hold. And underneath the photograph - in Sinclair’s grandfather’s handwriting - is Augustus Teodoro Sinclair Ortiz, tiene dos dias.

Delta immediately lets out a happy croon, then holds up a hand, his index finger and thumb pinching a small space between them. He then gestures towards his own covered face and pats his heart.

So small! So cute!

Eleanor giggles and turns the page, revealing a double-page spread of various pictures from Sinclair’s earliest days - Sinclair in his grandfather’s arms, then in his grandmother’s, then Sinclair being fed, then Sinclair being bathed, then Sinclair playing with his mama - which just makes Delta croon more.

Sinclair turns in his seat, leaning his elbow on the top of the couch and fixing Delta with a raised eyebrow and a strained smile. He’s appearing casual, but he’s got a faint blush of embarrassment on his cheeks.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say, kid,” he says amusedly. “My family always reckoned I was a handsome baby, let’s just leave it at that. Though, you might wanna take it down a notch,” he points a finger at him, “cause if we end up findin’ a relative of yours, I’m gonna be askin’ for your baby pictures, and then we’ll see how you like bein’ held up like a showcase.”

Delta shrugs. He would also like to see his baby pictures, so he invites Augustus to ask for them. This threat doesn’t frighten him, Augustus.

“An’ as fer you, young lady,” Sinclair says to Eleanor before reaching over to shut the book, then he takes it and holds it close to his chest, turning away from her a little to jokingly protect the book from her, “I think you’ve had enough time eyeballin’ my pictures for today. Think I’ll be holdin’ onto this for a time, ‘til your daddy’s purged those snapshots from his mind.”

Eleanor giggles.

“That’s fair,” she says, before twisting in her seat to look up at Delta. “Father, we were just discussing up the possibility of adding our own photographs to the album as well. There’re plenty of empty pages to fill. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

Delta’s shoulders only perk up higher, delighted with the notion, and just as always, seeing Delta look happy makes Augustus happy.

“Well, you know what, honey?” he says, smiling and turning back to her properly, before patting Eleanor’s knee, getting her attention. “It sounds like…a mighty good idea ta me.”

Eleanor gasps happily, then grins and excitedly looks up at Delta.

“Oh! We should start by taking pictures of your roses, Father!” she says, then starts scrambling up from the sofa. “Hold on - I’ll just go and fetch my camera!”

As she runs out of the living room and across the foyer, Sinclair calls out to her, brandishing the album up in the air, “An’ I’m settin’ the ground rule now: this album stays in my safe when you ain’t usin’ it!”

“Alright!” Eleanor calls back without looking, practically flying up the stairs to go to her room.

Sinclair watches her go, then gives a soft sigh and removes his glasses, letting them hang from the cord around his neck again. Photo album in hand, he rises from the sofa, then looks over at Delta, who’s watching him.

“Well. Reckon we oughta be gettin’ back to it, hey, chief?” he says, sounding tired, then holds up the book. “I’ll go put this away so that it’s secure, then you an’ I can go back ta twiddlin’ our green thumbs, hm?”

He starts to walk toward the stairs, but just as he goes to pass Delta, an arm comes down in front of him and blocks his way, startling him.

Sinclair whips his head around to look at Delta, raising an eyebrow in confusion, only for that arm Delta had put out to wrap around him and pull him in for a gentle hug.

“Aww,” Sinclair says with a chuckle, patting Delta’s chest. “Now, what’s this all about, pumpkin? Did ya miss me, or are you always jus’ feelin’ cuddly?”

Delta is silent; his response comes in pulling back from the hug a little to free up space between them, then prodding Sinclair in the chest and holding his finger there in his designated sign of asking Sinclair if he’s okay.

Sinclair’s mouth forms an ‘o’ in his surprise, but then he gives a puff of a laugh through his nose and shakes his head as he hangs it; should’ve known Delta would notice his demeanour, he’s even more observant than Eleanor. He’d dare to say, as well, that Delta knows him better than anybody, nowadays.

“You got eyes like microscopes, chief,” Sinclair says, glancing up at him, before patting the hand Delta’s got on him. “But no matter what you’re seein’, I’m alright. I just, uh…”

He’s not really sure how to talk about all these feelings he’s got churning inside of him right now, not sure if he even wants to, to be honest. But if he does end up chatting about it, it’s probably best to do so after Eleanor’s gone to bed; he doesn’t want to dash her hopes by having her hear about how he’s getting a little overwhelmed by everything.

He clears his throat, then reaches up to pat Delta’s chest again, giving him a smile as he says, “Forget it - I’m just fine, honey. Nothin’ to worry your head over, it’s just that, ah…this walk down memory lane was a li’l more like a trip and a fall this time.”

Delta gives a sympathetic croon, then pulls Sinclair in for a slightly tighter hug, not enough to hurt him but enough to make his point clear, using both arms this time and bending forward to try and encompass Sinclair’s body with his own.

“You are too good ta me, pumpkin pie. Didn’t I just say I was alright? You got eyes like microscopes but ears like dams, is that it?” Sinclair says with a laugh, humouring Delta by hugging him back and patting his side. “But like I said, I’m jus’ fine, so you stop your fussin’. Instead,” he pulls back and prods Delta’s chest with a finger, “you should be concernin’ yourself with the state of those roses of yours. Poor things must be gettin’ thirsty, waitin’ on us this whole time.”

Delta’s shoulders perk up again, eager to get back to work, and Sinclair chuckles before telling him he’ll just quickly put his album upstairs, out of the way, and he’ll join Delta afterwards.

As he walks up the stairs, Sinclair looks fondly down at the album in his hands, giving another soft sigh through his nose as the gold cursive on the cover catches the light, shining: La Familia.

#My writing #BioShock #BioShock 2 #biofluff 2023 #biofluff #Augustus Sinclair #Eleanor Lamb #Subject Delta #Deltaclair #Topclair

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